


Gloomverse Drabbles

by Enasencca



Category: Gloomverse (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Pushing Daisies Fusion, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe- Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe- Daemons, Alternate Universe- Gods and Goddesses, Alternate Universe- Wings, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst with no happy ending, Assistant is underappreciated, Dead Harold AU, Drabbles, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Harold and Wallis cares, Hobo is a cinnamon roll, Hurt/Comfort, I'm just tacking tags on with each chapter now, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Memory Loss, One-Shots, Platonic Soulmates, Resurrection, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Seaweed is best bro, Sickness, Snippets, So many AUs!, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, The major character death isnt, Wedding, Wedding Planning, Well - Freeform, Yeeaaaahhh, abuse of brackets, in like one chapter, in only one chapter anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-06-11 23:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15326763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enasencca/pseuds/Enasencca
Summary: There are so many ways a story can go.[A series of unconnected Drabbles, each their own AU.]





	1. Brother Dear

**Author's Note:**

> In which Wallis and Harold aren't perfect, but they try.

_If I could begin to be_

 

_Half of what you think of me_

 

_I could do about anything_

  


Wallis is seven years old and he loves Harold more than anything in the world.

  


It's harder than he expected, being a big brother, but he wouldn't trade it away for all the stars in the sky. He's gone, committed, has been since the day his mom placed a warm body in his arms and called him one.

  


And Harold admires him, thinks him perfect in every possible way. Whenever he needs help he goes to his brother. It's a big burden to bear but bear it Wallis does. It's in the way he scares away bullies and lifts Harold on his shoulders, laughter and shrieking mingling into one. It's in the way he builds pillow forts and confidence and love, the two of them slotting together like carefully crafted puzzle pieces.

  


Harold thinks he's a star, but Wallis thinks the world of him. 

* * *

 

( _"What are big brothers for Momma?" He asks, staring transfixed at the little bundle in his arms. His heart feels too full, too big for his body. He wants to do something, but he doesn't quite know what yet._

  


_"Big Brothers protect their little brothers Shooting Star. That's what they do." She says, and with it Wallis finally puts a name to the emotion that's swelling up in him._

  


_He wants to_ **_protect_ ** _._

  


_"I'll protect him forever and ever and ever." He declares fiercely, confident in a way only a child can be. His heart_ **_beats beats beats_ ** _in a steady rhythm, in synch with the pulse fluttering under his fingertips._ )

 

* * *

 

_I could even learn how to love_

 

_When I see the way you act_

 

_Wondering when I'm coming back_

  


It's the guilt that keeps Wallis away. A physical tangible thing that eats away at him at every waking moment, and sometimes even when he's asleep. He can't stand to be around his brother anymore. He feels unworthy of it, after what he's done.

  


What kind of big brother is he?

  


And it hurts Harold, he knows, but he can't stop. He just can't. His brother's words continue to repeat themselves in his head, like a record player on its last legs. He shouldn't come near Harold really, this is all for the best. He keeps telling himself that as he sees the flicker of hurt cross Harold's expression when he turns his back, when the relationship they built together begins to crumble at its seams.

  


But for all he says so it still hurts. It hurts and hurts and continues hurting, a bruise that spreads and doesn't stop until he's aching all over and his heart is raw. He wants forgiveness but he won't ask for it. He wants companionship but he can't stand it.

  


Harold knows, he must. For he never blames Wallis or gets angry at him for leaving him behind the first chance he got. It's almost worse. It certainly makes him feel worse. Because when they do cross paths again his brother is a bitter man living on the streets and he himself a rising star, yet not once did the other blame it on him.

  


He even says it one day, in the privacy of a dirty alley under a sky full of stars that are worth much more than he is. He tells Wallis to forgive himself, that it was an accident and it wasn't his fault.

  


( _I left you alone. He says sometimes on the more bitter days, alone save for a picture of better days in his hands. I left you alone and I hurt you. Why did you forgive me?_

  


_It's hilarious. He has his forgiveness, always have had it in fact, and yet it changed nothing._

  


_In the end, it isn't Harold's forgiveness he needs, isn't it?_

  


_It's his own._ )

 

* * *

 

_I could do about anything_

 

_I could even learn how to love_

 

_Like you_

  


Hiring the guard is a spur of the moment thing. He doesn't know why he does it. He only knows that when he sees the Guard glare at him, chalky white skin and inverted pupils on display, he doesn't feel disgust but rather profound pity, for the man had looked desperate and scared.

 

A man twice his size, and he'd been scared.

  


Wallis isn't sure what drugs he's on when he asks the Inversian to come with him.

  


The Inversian squints suspiciously. The expression reminds him of his brother, for all that it's on an entirely different face and race, and he feels his heart twist painfully. "Why?"

  


Good question, he thinks. "Because I need a bodyguard and you look like you can handle a few fangirls." He says instead, confident in a way entertainers and performers have to learn to be, lest they get eaten alive. "Are you coming or not?"

  


The guy hesitates but follows behind when Wallis walks away, tugging the collar of his ragged coat up to cover his face. The entire walk home Wallis wonders why he is doing what he is doing right now, wishing he could go to a shrink without it being plastered all over social media because someone needed to cure him of bad decision making.

  


But he can't bring himself to regret it when he brings the Inversian into his home and gives him food, sees the gratitude in the others eyes as he offers him the contract. He just can't.

  


( _If he thinks of his brother as he watches the newly hired Guard wash the dishes, of his refusal to come stay with him or accept charity in any way, he doesn't dwell on it._

  


_At least he could save this one, he finds himself thinking one day. It's about time he starts being the person, the star young Harold once thought him to be._

  


_After all, what else does a shooting star do but grant wishes? Maybe one day he can do it for his brother but for now-_

  


_For now, this had to do._ )

* * *

 

_I always thought I might be bad_

 

_Now I’m sure that its true_

 

_‘cause I think you’re so g o o d_

 

_And I’m nothing like you_

  


Harold loves his brother, and for all his sharp words and empty threats he doesn't try to hide it from those that matters. He knows it and yet it doesn't ease the pain he feels when he sees how successful his brother has become, how respected and beloved.

  


It's not jealousy or envy. Those would be easier to handle.

  


No, it's shame he feels. Because his brother is so bright and colorful and an all around amazing person and he-

  


He's nothing. Nothing at all. Compared to Wallis he's cold and moody and antisocial. He's dark where his brother is light, in more ways than one.

  


Because Wallis doesn't have a shadow that stalks him at night, nips at his heels if he doesn't stand under a source of light.

  


Wallis doesn't need to huddle in a box, cold and starving but too stubborn and unwilling to bother him to ask for help.

  


Wallis isn't a shadow. (He's a star)

  


Wallis isn't any of these things. Harold loves him all the better for it, and hates himself all the worse.

  


( _Harold wonders sometimes, when the days are particularly cold and just the right amount of particularly trying. He wonders why he keeps going, even if he has nothing to look forward to anymore._

  


_On those days he calls Wallis's number using a payphone when he knows his brother is out, and listens to his brother's voice playing over and over again until the blood stops roaring in his ears._

  


_It's not a perfect way of coping or holding on. It's not even good, really. But it works, and isn't that what matters?_ )

 

* * *

 

 

_Look at you go_

 

_I just adore you_

 

_I wish that I knew_

 

_What makes you think I'm so special_

  


Logically, Harold knows Wallis loves him and cares about him. It's still a mind boggling mystery he's not entirely sure he wants to solve, because sometimes he just wants to pretend he deserves that level of devotion and affection.

  


He doesn't though. Not even close, and he knows that.

  


And yet- And yet Wallis still checks on him regularly, still leaves him money and food when he needs them. He hates the charity because he knows he shouldn't have them, not after the way he nearly killed his brother's light all those years ago, almost snuffed the life from his eyes.

  


He doesn't deserve Wallis, that much is a fact.

  


But Wallis feels like he doesn't deserve _Harold_ , and for all that confuses him he will never let it slide.

  


Brothers look out for each other after all, even bad ones. And Harold might be a bad person but in the end he's still Wallis Brother. That is something he can't bring himself to deny, even after all these years. And truthfully-

  


He doesn’t want to deny it.

  


( _Gloom? Wallis whispers from his place on the bed. A tragic accident, the doctors had told him. Car crash. He should recover fully, but it'll take him some time to wake. Harold has never run so fast in his life._

  


_Because even knowing that, it doesn't stop Harold’s heart from stuttering in his chest when he sees his brother, so weak and pale on the hospital bed, breathing shallow. He swallows and gingerly takes a seat in the provided chair. The lights in the room are too bright for his taste, too searing, but he isn’t going to leave Wallis behind._

  


_He hears Wallis murmur his name again in his sleep, and it really is both a curse and a blessing, to have someone love him this much, isn’t it? But to be honest… “I’m here.” He says softly, gripping his brother’s hand. “I’ve always been here.”_

  


_If he’s being honest, he wouldn’t trade it for the world._ )

* * *

 

_If I could begin to do_

 

_Something that does right by you_

 

_I would do about anything_

 

_I would even learn how to love like you_

  


Harold can see it on Wallis’s face when he grabs his shoulders, there in the middle of the lit hall. The guilt and the understanding and the determination, all plain as can be. It’s too much, so he turns away and says nothing.

  


Wallis knows, he must. He’s Harold’s brother after all. And it didn’t take a genius to understand that when Harold asked for help for that new Assistant, he means himself as well, for all he didn’t intend it to come across. He hopes his brother won’t point it out.

  


Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t. All he does is assure him that Assistant will get help, that he’d never let her flounder with nothing to her name. That he’d try his best to take care of her. It eases the knot that’s been growing in his chest, and he gives a nod.

  


Predictably, that’s when a metaphorical switch is flipped and their relationship snaps back like a rubber band when Wallis begins teasing him. It’s familiar and comforting this banter, for all that it’s exasperating at the same time. He falls back into easily, denying the claims of he having a crush on assistant (ridiculous!) and points out his brother’s less than manly activities, though there’s no real heat to his voice.

  


“Wait a minute…” Wallis says just as he’s preparing to leave, one hand on the door. “Before I go, I have something for you.” There’s a seriousness to his tone that almost puts Harold on edge, because his brother is very rarely serious for more than a few minutes at a time.

  


“Huh? What is it?”

  


“Here.”

  


Wallis takes off his hat and reaching into it, drops something onto the outstretched palm of his hand. It’s Candy, shaped and coloured exactly like the Lemonkids. Harold feels a sharp pang in his chest- his brother has long since stopped giving him candy. Not since they were children, when his brother was still testing the limits of his magic and him without his hat and wand.

  


“I’ve been meaning to say this for a while Gloom. Next time you’re down on your luck, instead of stealing my stuff… Just ask for help okay?”

  


He stares at the candy in his palm, not sure what to feel. Of course he knows Wallis loves him and cares, and he knows he has done nothing to earn it, but- but he never wants to see the hurt on his brother’s expression ever again, could go his entire life without it quite happily.

  


“Wallis, I…” He doesn’t know what he wants to say really,  _I’m sorry_  and  _I know_  and all of those words sticking in his throat and refusing to come out. He’s saved from having to continue when Wallis says goodnight and leaves, and he’s left alone in the hall with only his thoughts and a piece of candy for company.

  


He stands there for a few minutes, staring at the door before turning to go, the candy still in his hands. His mind replays the conversation they just had again and again, and every time it does Harold feels guilt wash over him.

  


His brother was hurt, because of him.

  


What kind of brother is he?

  


Harold swallows thickly as he begins unwrapping the candy, something to keep his hands occupied. He knows Wallis cares, always had, but it’s another thing entirely to see it laid before him like this. To see how him living on the streets has been affecting him. He fights to stop his hands from trembling as he pops the candy into his mouth.

  


It’s sour, with a hint of sweetness here and there. The taste helps ground him enough to calm down, and he shuts his eyes and considers.

  


He doesn’t deserve Wallis. But he wonders now, if it’s really fair to the both of them to make the decision on his own.

  


( _“I’ll stay.” Harold says to Wallis, amidst the smell of bacon and toast. His cooking of course, because his brother refused to let the guard do so when he’s in the house. In his words: “Gloom is a much better cook Guard you can just wash the dishes later.”_

  


_Wallis chokes on the toast he’s biting into, devolving into a coughing fit that has Harold wondering if he should cross over and do the Hemlich Maneuver. Thankfully such drastic measures are not needed, for Wallis downs the cup of coffee next to him to wash the offending piece down. It works._

  


_“What?” He asks, and there’s such naked hope in his expression that Harold kind of hates himself for not thinking of doing this sooner. “You’re staying?”_

  


_“Yup. Someone has to make sure you don’t chase away Assistant.” He heckles, but it does nothing to diminish the grin that’s spreading across Wallis’s face. “If you don’t mind that is.” He can’t help adding the last sentence, even if of course his brother won’t mind, he looks ready to jump over the table and sweep him into a hug._

  


_“I- Of course not.” Wallis says, looking offended at the mere idea. “You’re my brother Gloom. This means the world to me.”_

  


_Harold snorts, feeling warm and embarrassed at the same time. It’s not something he has felt for quite a long time. “Shut up and eat your Toast Wallis.” He says, and he can practically hear his brother grin from behind his newspaper._

  


_It’s ridiculous really. That he’d mean the world to a literal Star.)_


	2. If I had wings I would fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Assistant has a special gift.

Some people can control water, call candy from their fingertips.

  
  
Assistant can see wings. 

* * *

  
(She's seven years old and so alone it hurts, for all she lives in a house of three. A house, not a home because a home implies she's loved and she's not, no matter how many straight A's or chores she does. 

  
She's seven years old and sitting in the rain when a stranger offers her his umbrella, red blue green yellow and all the colors in between. She cries then, because her parents had taught her kindness had to be earned and she always had failed at that front. 

  
She's seven years old when she looks up at the stranger, words of gratitude that dies on her lips when she sees a pair of wings so bright and _beautiful_ it takes her breath away.)

* * *

  
_I can see wings_ . She tells her teacher one day in the playground, whispers it because it's a secret and it belongs to her, hers alone the way magic hats and wands belong to every one of her classmates. It's the one thing she has that they don't, feeds the spark of rebellion in her eyes whenever they talk down at her. 

  
Her teacher's pair is blue like the sky, striped with cloud white and speckled with darker blue. They flap soundlessly as he bends down to look at her. _Really_ ? He asks, and he smiles the same way he does when he gives her candy and praises, warm and sincere in its softness. 

  
_Yeah_ . She answers and then she asks, softly. _Why do you think I can see them?_ _  
_

  
He's silent then but when he answers his voice is light and soothing, like a downy blanket being wrapped around her. _Maybe_ . He says, and he doesn't sound like he's joking at all. _Maybe it's to remind you you're special. That not everyone in this world is bad._ _  
_

  
_How do you know?_ She shoots back and instantly regrets it, because adults (her parents) hate it when she does that. She expects him to glare at her and is taken aback when he ruffles her hair instead. 

  
_Because I lived it_ . He says, and then he leaves because the bell just rang and there's someone waiting at the gate, a man with yellow wings edged with black who presses a kiss on his cheek. 

  
_Oh_ , she thinks, and his wings suddenly look much prettier than they were before. _Oh_ . 

* * *

  
(She's twelve years old and goes home to a cold house and an even colder family. 

  
She's twelve years old and sees the ugly twisted shapes on their backs, patchy with disease and rot. She sees them and compares them to that of the stranger who offered her an umbrella, a teacher who gave her advice. 

  
She's twelve years old, and suddenly she _understands_ .) 

* * *

  
Wallis's wings are a splash of color in her gray life, red flecked with molten gold and blue, like a macaw’s. He doesn't manage to scare her away, because for all he tries to be bad his wings tell a much different story. 

  
He's not bad, not the way her parents are. She might not understand why he tries so hard to be, but she'll stick by him because he's the first person in five years to help her in any way, who doesn't look at her and see something to look down on. 

  
Harold asks her how she knows one day, his own tawny brown and black wings, sharp and angular like a raptor's, spread wide in curiosity. Because while Wallis is her boss she could have at least _tried_ to escape while she could, and that she didn't meant she must have known his brother was nicer than he let on. 

  
She sees a flash of red blue gold at the corner of her vision, and she smiles. _A magician never reveals her secrets_ , she says, and the surprised laugh that worms its way out of him is a good enough answer to that. 

  
And when she passes Wallis hours later, he gives her a smile so bright and wide it has her blinking the stars out of her vision. She grins back. Try me, it says, and he quirks an eyebrow, excited and just a little proud.

  
At that moment his wings curl around the two of them, and she knows she's here to stay. 

* * *

  
(She's seventeen years old when she gets a new name, and it fits her much more than her first one did. She gripes at the impracticality, the ugliness, but in her chest her heart glows. 

  
_Assistant_ is scarcely a few days old when she thinks, for the first time in her life, that she might have found her flock at last.) 

* * *

  
_Stop it!_

  
  
Assistant screams and that's all she can do, scream. Because Seaweed is a friend, a sister perhaps, and she's dying right under her fingertips. She screams and sobs, watches as Cakegirl continues to hurt her.

  
  
And not only Seaweed but all of them, her flock in its entirety. She thinks of their kindness, taking her into their flock, their nest, so readily.

  
  
And Assistant can't do anything to help them.

  
  
I want to help them! her very soul screams, with wild desperation that seemed to have fused itself with the very marrow of her bones. Please! 

  
And just like before, all those months ago by the edge of a fountain, someone comes and grants her silent plea for help. They come wreathed in darkness and horror but she doesn't care, because they gave her the means to save her friends and she's going to do it, and anything that wants to stop her can try. 

  
Assistant shouts _Blue_ to the heavens, a challenge and a vow all in one.

  
  
She makes a leap of faith.

* * *

  
(...   
  
Assistant is under a year old and-   
  
-Maybe this is what it feels like to _fly._ ) 

* * *

  
Assistant is shaking slightly when she finally gathers the courage to look herself in the mirror, a thin ruined girl who can't even use the magic she had so coveted for the last seventeen years. It hurts and she hates it.

  
  
Almost out of habit, she places a hand on the small of her back, and wonders, not for the first time, what her wings would look like if she could see them. 

  
Would they be like Wallis's? Like Harold's?   
  
Like Seaweed's, blue green and wreathed in downy feathers reminiscent of sea foam?

  
  
Or Petunia's, small purple wings of various purple shades? Maybe Purple's, dark pink and purple feathers mixing together to make the violet hues pop.

  
  
_I can see your wings_. She hears from behind her, and for all the words are barely a whisper she hears it like a roar. She turns to see Hobo, looking at her with a look that makes her heart ache.

  
  
She asks him what he means, a broken _what_ that barely makes it out of her throat. And Hobo, bright optimistic Hobo with red and white wings, just smiles at her sadly.

  
  
_I cant see mine either._ He admits, voice low as he comes closer. She doesn't bother asking him how he knows, because Hobo has always been observant. _But I can see yours, and the others._

  
  
Assistant swallows at his next question. Do you want me to describe them?

  
_  
_ She thinks for a moment, but in the end it's not even a choice. No, she says and her voice doesn't shake for the first time in days. Because if she ever sees her wings she wants it to be a surprise, something she has earned instead of something she was given.

  
  
Hobo grins when she asks him the same question. _I don't want to either,_ he replies, and they share a look that's far from serious, but not completely lighthearted either. 

* * *

  
(Assistant is a year old and unsure she can ever be perfect, or even good, again.

  
  
But here, bathed in the warm glow of companionship and brotherhood, she allows herself to believe she can at least be Assistant once more.) 

* * *

  
_Oh Assistant... How can you expect to jump when you can't even walk?_ _  
_

  
Assistant is falling falling falling, arm outstretched as she watches the clouds get further and further away. She feels flames lick at the back of her neck, sees shadows surrounding her.

  
  
And she's so tired. It would be easy to give up, just close her eyes and let herself be swallowed up.

  
  
Except.

  
  
Assistant has never had it easy in life. She clawed her way to where she is now, earned a place in a flock and a family who would never hurt her. She has kindness freely given and people she could never abandon.

  
  
She would never abandon them, just as they would never leave her behind.

  
  
For them, she will learn how to walk again, how to run. For them she will face her demons no matter how long it might take, jump back into her nightmares of empty smiles and crippling lack self worth again and again if it meant protecting them, being strong.

  
  
She remembers loyalty and kindness from Wallis and Harold, of Seaweed's unshakable cool. Petunia taught her love could be given freely and not everyone would look at her differently, and Purple showed her that one can succeed if they just tried hard enough.

  
  
She learnt the meaning of strength from each of them and it's those memories that give her the energy to orient herself and grin at the clouds, eyes flickering red and orange all in one.

  
  
She thinks of a stranger's kind gesture and a teacher's wise words all those years ago.

  
  
And Assistant smirks because she gets it, she finally _knows_.

  
  
**_I'll fly_ ** . She declares to the world, and in a roar of colors she feels two wings burst from her back. 

* * *

  
(Assistant's a year old and

  
  
She's a rainbow come alive, because she drives the dark and the blank _back_ .)   
  



	3. One day we will go home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hobo can see ghosts, and this changes less than you think it would.

The little boy with the sad eyes and even sadder smile has been around Wallis for as long as Hobo knows him. He doesn't ask, doesn't say anything. He's been around long enough to know that knowledge of the dead can sometimes only hurt the living.

  
  
Sometimes though.

  
  
Sometimes he's so _tempted_.

  
  
Sometimes Hobo tries to bandage the injuries Wallis gets throwing himself into street brawls and fights with reckless abandon and it's on the tip of his tongue, because the little boy will always be crying and he's _sure_ that being told of those tears will get his friend to stop.

  
  
He doesn't say anything of course, but the thought is still there, blossoming into desire that tastes like ashes on his tongue every time he tells yet another lie, evades another question.

  
  
_Wallis will tell me when he's ready,_ Hobo tells himself whenever he meets the little boy's sad eyes from across the alley, street, box. The little boy who's arms and legs are splattered with blood. _Wallis will tell me when he's ready._

  
  
And if Wallis is never ready, that's fine too. He tells himself when Wallis flinches from his touch, when he hears his friend's broken "I love yous" whispered into a payphone in the dead of night. It's not his secret to know, not in his nature to demand.

  
  
So he goes to sleep every night with the little boy's sad eyes staring at him, until-

  
  
_A man with purple skin and hair and glasses who strides over and whispers Wallis's name with a voice so hopeful and fond Hobo feels like he's intruding-_

  
_  
A man who brings Wallis back to his home, passing Hobo who's trying his best to stay quiet and hidden by with narry a glance-_

  
  
_A man who has that same little boy following closely behind and he sees Hobo and for once his eyes aren't sad but happy-_

  
  
Until the spectre whispers _thank you_ with such gratitude he feels both proud and ashamed, two sides of the same coin. He nods, feeling like he could have done more and done better but unable to voice it.

  
  
That's the last he sees of the little boy. Two months later Wallis comes to find him. He looks healthy and well fed, the scars on his body all almost gone at this point and his clothes not in tatters.

  
  
His little shadow is not there.   
  
  
  



	4. And may the Wedding Bells ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is more than one perspective on a wedding.

_24 hours to the wedding_ _  
_

  
Wallis opens the bottle, wine pouring out worth more than Evet's total paycheck and then some. He almost feels like he's sinning as he lifts the glass up to his lips.

  
  
The groom to be is smiling, the twinkle in his eye bright. They're the only two in the room, bodyguard and employer, and yet they're drinking wine together like they're family. Perhaps they are. Heaven knows Evets had picked up enough of Wallis's messes to feel like a father sometimes.

  
  
(And only heaven will ever know the pride he felt when he heard the news, a blossoming star in his chest)

  
  
"A toast." He says as they clink their glasses together, recalling all that had happened and what it meant. "A toast to the finest couple in Gloomverse."

  
  
It's cheesy and formal perhaps, but he knows Wallis and the way he lights up then tells him he said the right thing. 

* * *

  
_21 hours to the wedding_

  
  
Purple smiles at him from the shadows of his tent, and for once it's not the predatory quirk of his lips that usually has him flying in the opposite direction, diplomacy or magic be damned. It's genuine and soft and he finds himself unbalanced at the sight of it. 

  
"Prince Cirrus." Purple says and there's no teasing lilt to it, no insinuations dripping from every word like honey. "I'm glad you came."

  
  
"I'm getting married tomorrow." Purple continues and at this Cirrus's brain short circuits like his first every attempts to conjure lightning, exploding in an way that would put Virga's storms to shame. "To Wallis Gloom. You remember him? But I'll cut to the chase. I'm inviting you to the wedding." 

  
That's even more confusing, and his mind flails about until it connects with one of the words, and he holds onto it, anchors himself. "You're marrying a man?" He asks, befuddled and more than a little disgusted at the idea. It's unnatural and wrong, that he knows. 

  
Purple nods like it's the most natural thing in the world to him. Perhaps it is. He knows he should say no- it's against all his core beliefs, all that he had been taught.

  
  
What he finds himself saying however, is a soft "I'd be honored to." instead. 

* * *

  
_18 hours to the wedding_

  
  
"Madame President." Pi murmurs under his breath as he enters her office. "I have the papers you requested with me."

  
  
"About time." She grumbles as she accepts them. She needs work right now. Anything to take her mind off the slip of paper lying the trashcan, crumpled up in haste and anger.

  
  
The words Wedding and Wallis Gloom are the only things visible, and even just then barely. It still burns. She nudges the bin away.

  
  
Trust Wallis to make things complicated.

  
  
(White arm white hand a white face she so adored, pale and unmoving like marble-)

  
  
(...Trust Wallis to make her feel so bitter) 

* * *

_15 hours to the wedding_

  
  
Hobo is chattering amiably to him, all sunshine smiles and cheshire grins. His enthusiasm is remarkable, even if it's somewhat excessive.

  
  
He’s jittery of course, with nerves and anxiety that makes it hard to function on normal days, let alone now. He finds it very hard not to just call off everything and flee like he always does. It's only the feel of the ring on his finger and the knowledge of what that would do to Wallis that makes him stop.

  
  
But it doesn't stop the feeling of ice water crawling under his skin at all. No, it doesn't.

  
  
But Hobo does.

  
  
Hobo looks at him, puts a hand on his shoulder. His look is knowing, his smile is kind. Purple doesn't know how he knows, but he does and its evident in what he says next.

  
  
"You won't leave Wallis again." He says, and somehow he makes Purple believe it a little more too. 

* * *

_  
_ _12 hours to the wedding_

  
  
Harold stands stoically as Wallis looks him over, hands on his hips. He feels stuffy as all hell in the tux, and he curses the fact that his brother insisted on a night wedding (what's more romantic than the stars?) because it meant he'll have to wear this for a while.

  
  
He bears it though, even when Wallis snaps at the terrified and more than a little overworked tailor that it's too tight around his wrists, loose at his shoulders. He'd bear anything if it meant seeing Wallis smile like he had when he revealed the news more often.

  
  
He looks to the other side of the store, where Assistant is being fitted. They share a long suffering look that manages to look fond, the way only people who lived with Wallis knew how to do.

  
  
This was nothing compared to what he had done for them. 

* * *

  
_9 hours to the wedding_

  
  
Purple is pacing. He's sure he must have worn a hole into the carpet by now with the way he's getting on, but he can't help it. He's getting married in a few hours.

  
  
"What are you so worried about?" He hears Nim ask, the blue dress she had shipped from stratoverse just for this occasion fairly glowing under the sun. "You both will do great."

  
  
His throat feels dry as he speaks. "I'm not so sure of that Nim. Maybe I should jus-" He starts, but then she looks him in the eye and he quails under her gaze. It's more stormy than he has ever seen it.

  
  
"Professor. If you let this chance go by because you're scared, I will end you." She says and she's every inch the princess she is, one who had fought for her place in a land full of powerful magicians.

  
  
He averts his eyes first.

  
  
"Yes." He says, and god he needed that. It's pathetic that he needs someone to push him to prevent him from suffering an anxiety attack and more than a little strange, but Nim always does know what he needs.

  
  
She smiles then and the intimidating princess is gone in the blink of an eye. "You'll do great." She says as she pats his back. "You will." 

* * *

  
_6 hours to the wedding_

  
  
Seaweed finds her best friend huddled in his bedroom, swaddled in blankets and on the verge of hyperventilating.

  
  
"I can't do it Seagirl." Wallis almost sobs as she sits next to him, lets him rest his head on her shoulder, says nothing when she feels it get wet. "I can't do it."

  
  
And Seaweed has done this more times than she could count- comforting Wallis that is- and what's one more? "Why?" She asks and he flicks his watery eyes upwards to gaze at her through ashy blonde locks.

  
  
"What if he leaves again?" He asks, voice soft and strangled. "I can't go through that again Seaweed. I can't." He had barely survived the first time, she remembers. A second time would undo him, she knows.

  
  
She knows this, but she also knows something else. "Purple won't leave Stars." She says, thinking of Purple's steely gaze as he promised her he would take care of Wallis, all that time ago. "He won't."

  
  
"How do you know?" And he's just a little hopeful now because she had never lied to him, never will. She presses her forehead to his like they used to do as kids, tries not to feel like she's losing the only family she had through this wedding, and focuses on his blue eyes instead. Wallis comes first. He always has.

  
  
"Because he has you." 

* * *

  
_3 hours left to the wedding_

  
  
"How do I look?" Purple asks Petunia softly as she adjusts her bowtie. She's not his mother in law yet but she might as well be, a mother to him that is.

  
  
She steps backwards and looks him up and down. He shuffles self consciously, barely restrains the urge to look down. He wonders what she sees.

  
  
He almost flinches when she raises her hands, but then she's cradling his face with an expression so warm his heart aches. "You look perfect." She whispers proudly and something in Purple loosens, crumbles without her having to do a single thing.

  
  
He squeezes her hands gently and smiles back. 

* * *

  
They think of different things.

  
  
Wallis thinks of Seaweed's words, of a warm hand in his and a night spent under the stars, just the two of them lying side by side and enjoying each other's company. He thinks of what has happened and what is to come. He smiles, radiant in his dark purple tux, and says "I do."

  
  
Purple thinks of Hobo's words, a warm hand in his and a night spent in bed, the thought of having someone waiting at home to banish the loneliness. He thinks of ever considering giving this moment up out of fear and wants to kick himself. He smiles, radiant in his white tux, and says "I do."

  
  
They kiss and it isn't- it doesn't feel the way it usually does.

  
  
It feels like warmth, of love, of coming _home_.


	5. We leave our soul free

Orion settles the day Wallis ruins his brother's life.

  
  
He doesn't notice at first, too frozen and scared at the time to notice anything really. He watches, shellshocked, as his mom calls the hospital with her own daemon whimpering. As Harold sobs, his distressed daemon in his lap (not arms not arms he no longer has any and it's all his fault) and feels a wave of self loathing so strong he throws up in a nearby bush.

  
  
He doesn't notice Orion flickering through his many forms behind him, a lion one moment, a lizard the next, until finally it is a bird that nudges his arm and coos, a low comforting sound that pulls him out of his misery enough to inhale deeply, clutching his daemon and burying his face in their feathers.

  
  
It's only much much later that he gets to examine his daemon more closely, realize he won't change ever again. Orion waits patiently as he looks them over, but nips his fingers playfully when a few minutes has passed. He lets them go, and the daemon cocks his head.

  
  
_So this is what you are now_? Wallis asks quietly. He had always wanted Orion to settle as something cool, like a tiger or wolf. This bird in comparison is rather bland, for all its bright colors.

  
  
_Yes_ . Orion says as he yawns, feathers moving with every movement. Wallis tracks the colors with bright blue eyes. _Got a problem with that_? The question is a demand and a challenge all in one, and the blonde shakes his head.

  
  
_Never._  He says, and pulls the pheasant into a hug.

 

(Years later it will be Wallis who asks the question, his invisible limbs bared and his breath quick. Orion looks at him, exasperatedly fond. _Never_ , he says, and this time he is the one to initiate the hug.)

* * *

  
People think Endre is already settled, and Harold lets them assume. It's one less target for the bullies, one less insult they can lob at him.

  
  
He knows Endre is unsettled the way he knows the sun will rise from the east, a knowledge that slots itself into his very bones. He knows, though no one else does, that she just doesn't like shifting at all, preferring to stay in her sparrow form.

  
  
(He asked her once, why she didn't like shifting. Endre had just chirruped cheekily, and asked if it mattered.

  
  
It didn't, not really.)

  
The moment she truly settles is the moment Harold receives his magic.

  
  
The memory is tainted by blinding, horrible _pain,_  one that left him writhing on the floor and screaming in agony. Some part of him is relieved he was alone- another wants Wallis and his mother to be there, anyone to hold him close and comfort him and make it _stop_.

  
  
It feels like an eternity before Harold can finally breathe again, loud and noisy, rattling his frame. Inhale, exhale. He repeats in his head. Inhale exhale.

  
  
When he doesn't quite feel like he's going to suffocate he all but crawls into sitting position. There's a hat and a wand where his shadow used to be but that isn't the most important thing there.

  
  
No, it's Endre. Endre, who's a still bundle of fur on the floor, breathing so slowly his heart almost stops. He scoops up the daemon with trembling hands, blows warm air over her.

  
  
_Harold_ . Endre hiccups weakly when she rolls over, and he sees her settled form for what it is. A black cat. _H-Harold_.

  
  
_It's alright_ . He mutters as he holds her close to his chest, lets her nestle close to his heartbeat like she was want to do. _I'm here. We're okay._

  
  
She doesn't look like she quite believes him, and he doesn't blame her. But she says nothing more, and the two of them remain like that for a while, the only sound in the room their synchronized breathing.

  
  
_I-_ Endre suddenly says, eyes widening. _I can't feel you. Harold!_ She uncurls herself, shaking. _I can't feel you!_

  
  
_What?_ But even as he says it he knows she's right. There's a hole in his heart and an absence in his chest that makes him give an involuntary hiss, as he cradles her close. _But you're here. We're both alive._

  
  
_But I can't_ **_feel_ ** _you!_ She all but shrieks, and in a flurry of movement she's jumping out of his hands. It lasts only a minute- she drops after that, frenzied energy gone. _You're gone! Where are you!_

  
  
_Endre ..._ Harold sobs her name out like it could fix this. She's a pale shadow of herself now, he a dark imitation. _I'm so so sorry._

  
  
He holds her close to his chest again, and this time they both cry together, wailing for the loss of something they never expected to lose.

  
  
(The Dark Overlord wanted his soul as payment. Harold agreed to it.

  
  
He had never expected separation, nor did he know the kind of soul he was giving up.)

* * *

 

Seaweed is terrified of her Daemon settling.

 

It’s not that she doesn’t want to grow up, or doesn’t want to see what Huron would settle as. And it’s not because she would miss his shifting, though admittedly she would. It would be strange to have her other half walking (or flying) beside her confined to one form, when these days he flickers from one to another with reckless abandon.

 

No, she’s terrified of what she thinks he’ll become.

 

They’ve both always loved water. They loved the rain, the lakes, the oceans, and it was of no surprise when she discovered her magic was of it. Recently Huron had taken to be an Albatross, swerving in the sky and diving into nearby bodies of water.

 

And therein lies the problem. Seaweed is scared of Huron settling as a fish, a shark, a dolphin, and so on. She has heard tales of such pairings before- the humans end up having to live on boats and ships indefinitely, unable to be apart from their waterbound daemons for long. And while she loves water, such an existence would be a lonely one and not one she desires.

 

So the ecoversian child waits with bated breath everytime her daemon swims alongside her, or dives into the ocean alone. She waits, and she fears, and she worries.

 

Until one day, she stops. They both do that day. It’s not something they want to remember, for all that it’s impossible to forget.

 

The important thing is that they walk away from that moment together, an ecoversian girl and her otter daemon curled around her neck.

 

(It’s only when they have the time to talk do they. Seaweed brushes Huron’s fur with her fingertips, marveling at how soft it is. All the while her daemon purrs like a kettle, loud enough for it to echo within her. It’s them together against the world, and it always will be.)

* * *

 

Purple watches as Chroma shifts through all the shapes she had taken through the years, from the tiny dormouse to the intimidating cougar. He watches the flickering animal forms disappear one by one with a deep rooted sense of finality, of nostalgia. This would be the last time- they both know it.

 

Eventually she stops, unfurling her new wings and flapping them. She’s a small tawny owl, pale brown and speckled with darker shades. Chroma shuffles at his feet, getting used to the form, before flapping her wings and flying up to Purple’s left shoulder.

 

He scratches her head once she’s there, and she gives an approving clicking noise as a response, leaning into his touch. The boy chuckles- he’s a bit old to have his daemon just settled, but they’ve always been outcasts, odd ones out, and it doesn’t bother them. Even now they feel loss- the closing of one door forever.

 

 _I’m pretty, aren’t I?_ Chroma preens, and Purple’s laugh is a loud, giddy thing.

 

(They don’t talk about what happened the day before. Of how Purple hurt Wallis so so badly, and how his daemon had rebelled, turning into a cat and stubbornly curling around his ex boyfriend’s feet, a clear indication of how he really felt.

 

They don’t talk about how it wasn’t enough, about the bitterness to their actions now, of how the size of Chroma’s settled form would fit perfectly with Orion’s own.)

* * *

 

Hobo’s daemon is a beautiful doe, all grace and regal where he is not. They make a striking pair together, a man with hair red as fire and a sunny grin, a doe who’s all soft colors and an even softer voice.

 

They’re a strange pairing, and no one understands them. No one understands how Cocola can be Hobo’s daemon, how she could be what she is instead of anything else. A dog perhaps, or maybe even ahare, but not this.

 

And then there are others, who think Hobo has something to hide. Tries to get him to open up, to show his real self, when really with him what you see is what you get. It’s baffling, and the both of them can’t understand why some people can be so blind.

 

But sometimes, someone gets it. They’ll see Hobo comfort a stranger, see him lead lost children back to their parents, and see the gentleness that had been within him all along. Then they’ll find that Hobo and Cocola are not so different after all.

 

(The two of them had never needed an explanation, nor had they asked for. They had just known.)

* * *

 

Petunia and Pani are two halves of the same whole.

 

It’s been a long, long time since the latter settled as a rabbit, snowy white fur and red eyes that twinkled like stars. Petunia remembers being happy and satisfied- she had never been one for regret. Pani had settled, and that had been enough for her.

 

Others might have been disappointed at having a rabbit daemon, taken it to mean they were meek. But Petunia knows this isn’t the case, despite what others might think. She knows at the end that Pani is her and she is Pani, and she knows what that means.

 

Rabbits are gentle and kind, lovely animals. They’re quiet and soft and just right for children to hold, although to both their regrets it would be impossible for anyone to hold her but Petunia. They don’t have sharp teeth or claws, no poison to draw on or any other defensive measures.

 

But that did not make them weak.

 

Petunia knows. She knows that Pani being her daemon is more than what it seems. She serves as a warning, a caution to those who are looking for one.

 

Even the smallest, most gentle animal can bite, can defend itself. And Petunia is willing to do that and more, if it meant protecting her children.

 

(People see Pani as a symbol of weakness. Petunia knows it’s one of strength.)

* * *

 

Pelangi hasn’t settled, much to both him and Assistant’s regret.

 

It’s not just simply that he hasn’t settled, it’s also because he refuses to stay bound to one form for long. Assistant watches him with something akin to despair as he shifts over and over, discarding forms like used bits of paper.

 

_A fox, An Eagle, A chameleon._

 

 _I cant help it_ , Pelangi had once said. He was a Goat at that time, and she had taken a moment to admire his curved horns before they inevitably disappear. _I don’t know why I can’t._

 

 _It doesn’t matter._ She had lied, smiling in a way that hurt them both. _Take as long as you like._

 

_A horse, A Quail, A hedgehog._

 

They both wonder sometimes. Assistant wonders what it means, for her to be disappointed in something that represented herself. Pelangi wonders what it means, failing to meet his other half’s demands.

 

_A Moose, An Axolotl, A Frog._

 

And they continue that way, bitter words and even more bitter exchanges, until the day Assistant falls from the sky and no one else is there to help.

 

She hears Pelangi changing for the last time.

 

_A Panther, A Wildcat, A Lynx._

 

Assistant falls unconscious to a roar.

 

(When she wakes up in a hospital bed, the first thing she sees is not her missing leg, or even a nurse. No, she first sees the Grizzly Bear seated at the edge of her bed, blearily opening his own eyes.

 

Their gazes meet, and despite everything they both grin. _Well?_ He asks, his smile toothed and sharp. She feels a thrill of excitement at the sight of it. _Like it?_

 

 _A lot_. She says and it’s genuine in a way her words hasn’t been in years. He gives a content rumble, and she a proud hum, the both of them finally one whole the way they’ve always been meant to be.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all the stories I have for now!


	6. Were I still an Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Seaweed isn't human, but she is still her.

She remembers love once. 

  
  
Once she had been an angel the way humans see them, all light and grace and heavenly radiance, her father's love slotted so deeply into her bones that it echoed within every snowy white feather.

  
  
Once she had sisters and brothers who she cared for fiercely and who loved her just as much, who sang with her in those days of bliss.

  
  
Once she had wings, big and bright and so so beautiful.

  
  
(Now there is nothing but hate and envy and regret.)

* * *

  
It's easy enough to slip into mortal skin, folding what was left of her wings into her back and out of sight. She chooses an Ecoversian form for the challenge- their tribes are significantly more spiritually touched than other humans, and it'd be amusing to see how long it'd take for them to figure it out.

  
  
(She has absolutely no intention of hiding her true nature, no desire to pretend. Let them look upon her and feel unease, distrust. It matters not to her.

  
  
She will never be ashamed of what she is, never again.)   


* * *

  
Seaweed, that's what they call her. Her new parents that is. They are unnerved by their daughter's behavior, her knowing smiles and dark gazes, but they try their best.

  
  
She doesn't hold much affection for them- they are mortals, beneath even the lowest angel's notice. But they are amusing, and she finds herself taking pleasure in seeing how they tick.

  
  
(She has done this dance many times before, in many different mortal forms over the centuries. It never ceases to interest her, how differently humans act, how they develop and change.

  
  
She was an angel once, stagnant and unmoving in the face of time, unchanged. This much variety interests her.)   


* * *

It's been a long while since she has set foot in Gloomverse, and it has undergone many changes. Colors assault her- reds and blues and yellows, bright and vibrant. Everything is cloaked in a veritable rainbow.   


  
She finds that the chaos appeals to her. Indeed, this would be a lovely place to stay for the time being, before she inevitably gets bored and departs for Below. 

  
  
But then....

  
  
Then she meets Wallis.

  
  
(The child who's reaching out to her is grinning, thumbing the brim of his red hat. He doesn't look like anything special at first glance, but she is not human and knows quite well he isn't normal.

  
  
He is mortal, yes, she can feel his life slowly ticking away by the second. But the magic thrumming under his skin is so achingly...

  
  
Familiar.

  
  
It feels like the morning star.

  
  
_It's nice to meet you_. She says, and she means it. He is interesting the way no other human has ever been before.)   


* * *

  
Wallis isn't perfect, not by a long shot. She can feel the sins he hold, and though lust is curiously absent he has more than his fair share of pride, of envy and greed. But that just makes him more endearing, in her opinion.    


  
And in the end, for all the smudges of sin and imperfection, his soul is bright and deliciously warm. Like a star. She can't help but wonder why, every time she examines him closely, peels through his layers of sins and memories as easily as one would peel an onion.

  
She can't touch his core though. He's too bright and it burns, the knowledge that he doesn't belong Below, doesn't belong to _her_.

  
(She doesn't want to think of what will happen once he passes. It is a long time in coming, she tells herself, and she dwells no more on the matter.

  
It's hard to live that lie effectively though, when she can feel his life draining away inch by inch, day by day.    
  


Barely the blink of an eye, for her.)   


* * *

  
_ You've contacted the Dark Overlord _ . She says, almost relishing the way Harold tenses, turning around to face her. The name is strange on her tongue- it's not his real one after all.    
  


But even fake names hold power.

  
_ How do you know? _ He demands, even paler than he usually is. She considers, for a fleeting moment, telling him. How she can feel the corruption, notices the way his shadow seems to stalk him. How she sees the Lemonkids for what they are; minions of below, small and strange but no less dangerous.

  
  
She considers, but that's all she does.   


  
_ I have my ways. _ She says, then  _ I won't tell _ . She leaves him behind, gaping at her back. Let him draw his own conclusions.    
  


(The Dark Overlord is her lord too. Regardless of her feelings on that matter, defiance meant something worse than death. After all, how can you kill something immortal?   
  


The answer is simple: You don't.   
  


And isn't that strange, having feelings at all? She never used to get attached, never once cared in all the times she had turned mortal.   
  


She does now.)   


* * *

  
When Purple pushes Wallis away she feels  _ rage _ , hot and all encompassing like the flames of Below. She could wipe him out of existence in a heartbeat, kill him with a look. She fantasizes about drowning him on dry land, taking away his breath with a flick of her wrist. 

  
  
But there's also other emotions, like sorrow and pity, cold and liquid and  _ ice _ . She isn't used to these- she's a creature of fire and dust, for all that her magic decided to take the shape of the waters she swims in these days.    


  
She blames the disorientation for her hesitation to hunt Purple down, for making her stay with Wallis instead.   


  
_ Did I do something wrong? Is that why he left? _ She hears him sniffle, head in his hands. She sees his sins laid bare before her and shakes her head.   


  
_ No _ . She answers, and isn't it ironic that she's telling the truth?   


  
(She has never lied to Wallis, not once.   


  
It's not her fault he never asks the right questions.)   


* * *

  
When she passes the Hobo Harold has been associating with, her eyes immediately narrow into slits. He is bright, but not the way Wallis is bright.

  
  
No, this one _reeks_ of heavenly grace.

  
  
The Redhead frowns at her as she bares her teeth.  _ What are you doing here?  _ The other asks, and she barely resists the urge to tear into him.

  
  
Instead she tilts her head at the gathering outside the doorway.  _ They're mine _ . She hisses, her canines sharp.  _ You are the trespasser here. _

__   
  
For a moment she thinks he's going to protest. There's a pressure building at the back of her ribs, an aching need to spread what is left of her wings and fight. She pushes it down, and is rewarded by him giving a short nod.

  
  
_ Apologies then. _ He says, and his voice is one saturated in light. She responds in kind and they continue on their way, an unspoken truce having been formed.

  
  
_ He is not too good _ , she thinks later,  _ for an angel. _

__   
  
(They discuss Harold at some point, and she learns that Harold is his the way Wallis is hers. She has no intention of interfering; as long as he does the same that is. They shake hands on it this time, the truce no longer unspoken but still just as binding.

  
  
For a brief moment they spread their respective wings. Ash Black and Pure White meet before the both of them are gone.)   


* * *

  
Assistant has been touched by the Dark Overlord. She can feel it, and it unnerves her deeply. There is already one in the house who sold his soul to her lord, and she is not the same. Yet his presence is there within her.

  
She has lived long enough to know there is no such thing as coincidences.   


  
So she invites herself over, deciding to check the girl out for herself. It is mildly amusing to hear Harold call her a witch, see him send her wary looks. It's good. He should be scared of her.    


  
The girl though, is not. Intimidated at first, but she grows out of her shell soon enough. She takes the time to peer into their soul and observe their sins. They are mostly of Envy and Lust, with a smattering of greed, all centered around her lack of magic. Beyond that her soul is untainted and colorful, forcing her to keep her black sunglasses on.   


  
(She wonders what her lord is trying to do. The Glooms are surrounded by demons and angels; there's something big at hand.

  
  
She wonders if the time will ever come where she will need to choose.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dont even know anymore


	7. And I heard the echo of his laughter on a breeze

There's a room in his house.

  
  
Just another empty room in a mansion filled with hundreds of them. Wallis doesn't remember ever going there, can't think of a reason as to why he would want to. There's nothing special about it.

  
  
(And yet.)

  
  
And yet he finds himself walking towards it on the days where he's not quite himself, his feet taking him there without his consent. He ends up, always, with one hand on the doorknob and his forehead against wood, cursing the door once again for demanding something he's quite unable to give.

  
  
Then Wallis will release his death grip, straighten and head down the hallway. He will pretend he's forgotten the entire incident, just as he has forgotten the ones that came before.

 

  
There's a room in his house and it's empty. That's all there is to it.

  
  
(Every Time he's here Wallis is suddenly sixteen again, all gangly limbs and cracking voices, awkward and moody like the worst of them. He feels so terribly small in a way he hasn't in years, reduced to the size of an ant under the Therapist's probing gaze.

  
  
_ You need to open up more. _ She insists, her tone soft and placating. He resists the urge to snap at her, fixing the grin on his face like it belongs there. 

  
  
It doesn't. Not anymore.

  
  
_ Can you name anyone you trust _ ? She continues after it's clear he's not about to answer, and it feels like a blunt dagger plunged into a chest, an icy cold vice around his heart. He tries to speak- once, twice, but all that comes out is a half aborted gasp.

  
  
She takes one look at him, the grin dipping at the edges and the pained look in his eyes, and says  _ Let's talk about something else _ .)   


* * *

  
He dreams sometimes.

  
  
Most of the time his sleep is fitful, flashes of awareness and not, and he ends up sitting at the kitchen table nursing a cup of coffee. He's been going through concealer like a starving man would food of late.

  
  
But sometimes. 

  
  
Sometimes Wallis has nightmares of  _ pink and insane laughter, audible snapping noises filling the air as a pressure builds and builds _ . He has nightmares of an  _ unfamiliar voice telling him not to blame himself, of a hand bone white and still. _

__  
  
On those nights he sits on his toilet, the bathroom lights at maximum intensity as he shivers and trembles and tries very very hard not to be sick.

  
  
(And sometimes. 

  
  
Sometimes he dreams of a blurry figure laughing with him, of tousling someone's hair. He dreams of banter and love, of safety and the feeling of being home.

  
  
And when Wallis inevitably wakes up, eyes blurry with tears he cannot shed and shards lodged into his still beating heart, he cannot decide if he prefers it to the nightmares.)   


* * *

  
Seaweed and Purple tread carefully around him.   


  
It's evident in the things they say and the way they act, like he's made of glass. Wallis has long since given up on convincing them to tell him why- they'd just lock up like a vault, and these days....   


  
He's just too tired to care anymore.   


  
So he pretends he doesn't feel like an outsider in his own life, pretends he can't read the lies his best friend spouts like truths, pretends there's nothing missing.   


  
He carves out a life for himself, surrounded by empty rooms, empty words and empty eyes and empty hearts.

  
(It can scarcely be considered living really, but he hasn't felt alive since the day he woke up in the hospital and no one would tell him how he got there.)   


* * *

  
_ Do you think _ , Purple asks Seaweed one day, when they know for sure that Wallis is not nearby, when they're alone save for a grave. (And after all, Dead Men tell no tales)  _ Do you think we should have told him? _

__  
  
And Seaweed rushes to say  __ No , of course not, because surely Wallis is happier this way. He's not haunted by something that wasn't even his doing, pulled down by the weight of his regrets.

  
That by not telling him what he had lost, that he had  _ lost _ something in the first place, they had made sure he lived. 

  
  
But then she thinks of the shattered windows that are Wallis's eyes and the lies die in her throat, unseen and unheard.

  
_ Yes _ . She chokes out instead, and Purple nods his understanding with something close to repentance. It's too late now, and besides- neither of them are selfless enough to face the betrayal that would bloom in Wallis's eyes at the truth.

  
  
(They pluck the weeds out and brush the dust off. She uses her magic to water the flowers Petunia had planted around the grave, while Purple sets to work clearing out the dead ones and replacing them.

  
  
They leave behind a well cared for grave, the name Harold Gloom etched in stone.)   


* * *

  
.   
  
.   
  
Wallis feels like he's forgetting something.   
  



	8. The plants, they speak to me

_ (The thing is.) _ __   
  


_ (Blood is thicker than water.) _

* * *

  
When Harold is born he's a noisy baby. He cries and sobs and hiccups as Petunia cradles him in her arms, because he is a baby and does not yet realize that he is warm and loved. 

  
  
_ ( _ **_Darling_ ** _. A whisper on the wind, a displacement of air by the cradle.  _ **_Sweetheart_ ** _. You're mine now.) _

  
He's taken into custody by the doctors and nurses, so Petunia can rest. She manages to stay awake long enough to greet Wallis when he bounds into her room though, long enough to tell him of his brother.

  
_   
_ _ (The baby in the cradle squirms- there's a shadow cast on his cheek. The smell of flowers fill the air, though there are no open windows in the room and no such thing.) _

_   
_ _   
_ __ (A tapping noise, the sound of bells. A flash of heat. A voice bespells.)

__   
  
Wallis is excited, and Petunia is relieved he does not look jealous. She promises him that once she has regained her strength she will take him to see his brother in the nursery, promised to let him carry them in his arms.

  
  
_ (A beating heart, an empty bed.) _

_   
_ _   
_ __ (A rush of magic and on the pillow lies a head.)

__   
  
With that promise given she settles down to sleep, and Wallis pulls out the couch next to her, covering himself with a blanket before shutting his own eyes.

  
  
_ (The being's gone, the babe will rest.) _

_   
_ _   
_ __ (Safe dreams little one, inside your bed)

__   
  
When they take Harold home he's a quiet baby. He's silent and calm and still as Petunia cradles him in her arms, because he is not a baby and knows that he is warm and loved.    


* * *

  
_ (The thing is.) _

 

_ (What makes something human?) _ _   
_

* * *

 

Harold grows up strangely attracted to the garden growing around their home. Perhaps not so strange, given that Petunia’s love for her garden is just as strong, but still.

 

_ (The flowers see and tell everything they do, and it takes no time for them to spread the news. A fae child! They whisper between themselves, awed. One of the fae is here!) _

 

_ (Harold cocks his head, wondering where the faint buzzing is coming from.) _

 

He loves lying on his back and feeling the wind tug at his hair, the grass tickle his scalp. He digs his feet and hands into the soil almost every day, causing Petunia to cluck in dismay at his stained clothes.

 

_ (The trees are gentler, wiser than the flowers. They are fond of the pale changeling who scales their trunks with ease, pluck fruits off their branches with tenderness. And so they shelter him under their leaves from anything that might wish him harm, whispers lullabies into his ears..) _

 

_ (Harold thinks that the rustling leaves almost sounded like gentle laughter. The thought makes something in his chest ache, a need to go home with no knowledge of a home to go to.) _

Perhaps the strange thing is that the garden loves him back.

* * *

 

Harold is twelve, years after the faithful accident that robbed him of both his limbs and his brother, when he wakes up in the middle of the night and stares at the full moon.

 

It’s shining through the window and something in him snaps, pushing him to his feet. He can hear singing- hear giggling and fluttering and the voices of his people calling him home.

 

_ (It’s coming from the garden.) _

 

His people?

 

_ ( _ **_Come now little one._ ** _ ) _

 

He stares helplessly at the moon, the burning itch crawling under his skin demanding him to open the window and leave. To wade waist deep into the flowers outside ad bury himself in them.

 

_ ( _ **_Come home.)_ **

 

But- they’re familiar purple flowers, and the sight of them anchors him, keeps his feet rooted to the ground. Even the act of keeping still is enough to make him break out in cold sweat, but he persists.

 

**_(There’s nothing left for you there.)_ **

 

They’re Petunias and Harold knows what to do.  _ I can’t. _ He whispers but then something clicks and a foreign language rolls off his tongue, gray words that come as easily as breathing.  _ This is my home now. _

 

**_(You belong with us.)_ **

 

Harold knows what to do, the knowledge echoing in his heart and soul and presenting themself before his eyes. Slowly, painfully, he walks three steps back and gropes for a pair of scissors on his desk. He holds it, trembling, before nicking his thumb with the blade. A bead of red wells up.

 

**_(Don’t do this.)_ **

 

The sight is enough to steel his resolve- the pain to make him cry. He breathes slowly as he draws a symbol with the tip of his thumb, crop circles and hexes coming to life when mixed with his tears, glowing.

 

**_(Little one, it’s not too late to turn back.)_ **

 

_ I claim this as my home _ . He mutters and watches as the symbols sink into the wall, as they carve themselves into the heart of the house.  _ Let no one harm those that dwell here. Let no one touch those that I call kin. _

 

**_(You will be lost to us.)_ **

 

Harold takes up the scissors again and watches as a pale string materializes. He reaches out.  _ Let the payment be my connection. Let me be lost to my people. Let me be barred from my kind. _

 

**_(No!)_ **

 

The string snaps and suddenly everything is quiet. He can’t hear the stars sing or feel the trees talking between themselves, and the colors are duller somehow. He’s alone in his head and it feels like he’s lost part of himself with the voices.

 

Shaking his head, Harold returns to bed and closes his eyes.

 

_ (He never goes to the garden again.) _

* * *

 

_ (The thing is.) _

_   
_ _   
_ _ (The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.) _ __   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for changelings


	9. Tell me if you wanna go home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cakegirl isn't a princess, but she'll get her happy ending somehow.

The first one to come is Cakegirl. She finds her tangled up in Chomper's vines, the Venus Flytrap looking ready to tear into the screeching pink lump in its deadly embrace. Petunia takes one look at the scene and drops the bucket she had been holding to run over.

  
  
They find themselves inside, much later, and Cakegirl glares at Petunia tends to her scratches. Her fingers twitch for her hat and wand, but she doesn't have them with her. Hasn't since the day Wallis sent her off to that psychiatrist, since her life fell apart at the seams.

  
  
She hates him so much it burns, and she hates the woman in front of him with that same crackling intensity. She wants to scream at her, to rage and throw the furniture about, to make her suffer as much as she had.

  
  
But if Petunia notices her murderous expression she doesn't say a word, continues to bandage her injuries. The look on her face is a mixture of concern and worry, and something twists in Cakegirl's chest.

  
  
Blue, she thinks immediately, instantly. They're so different, one an old hag and another a young adult, but she is reminded of her not-sister through the gentle smile on Petunia's face, sees her eyes in Petunia's gaze.

  
  
Something is shaking like a leaf caught in the wind. Cakegirl distantly realizes that it's her.

  
  
"There we go dear, do be more careful next time. Would you like anything? I'm afraid I  wasn't expecting guests, so I have nothing much to offer."

  
  
Petunia's voice is both a curse and a blessing, jolting her out of her stupor. Her hands tremble- she envisions them wrapped around the woman's throat and squeezing tight, imagines the tan skin paling under her fingertips. She feels a rush of triumph in that fantasy, sees herself gloating at Wallis over her victory.

  
  
But she's so exhausted and tired and lonely, nothing but old regrets and anger for company. And Petunia exudes kindness like she's made of it, her house so full and cluttered it feels more like a home than any other place she has ever visited.

  
  
Surely she can share some of that peace. Just for a little while.

  
  
Cakegirl nods and accepts the cup of tea that's placed in her hands. The thing trembles as she brings it to her lips, and the drink is hot enough to scald, but it's the first thing she's drank in months that doesn't taste like ashes on her tongue.

* * *

  
It's been four days and that's four days longer than Cakegirl had expected to stay. She sits on the worn couch numbly nibbling at the cookies Petunia had made for her. They're too dry and too rubbery, but she eats them anyway, brushes crumbs off her chest and onto the plate.

  
  
Petunia tuts from her spot by the wall- she's nailing a picture frame to the wall. "No crumbs on the sofa dear!" She admonishes and just for that, Cakegirl takes great pleasure in tipping the plate over, a mulish expression on her face.

  
  
And because the woman has eyes on the back of her head she gives a sigh, and it's exasperated but it's also fond, somehow. That's something Blue has never achieved- it's always been exasperation with her ladylike majesty. 

  
Thinking of her not-sister hurts, so she turns to look out of the window. The sun is shining and the birds are chirping and it's such a lovely day. She feels her skin crawl and feels like yelling at Mother Nature for having the gall to be so cheery when she feels so bad.

  
  
She does do that, cross over to the nearest window and scream her heart out. Curses and threats and venom spew out of her mouth as she hollers, her voice cracking and splintering until it tapers off to a choked sob, sticky and bitter in her throat.

  
  
Petunia doesn't question her when she comes back, just gives her a blanket and tells her for getting crumbs on the couch. She scowls at the words and crossing her arms, looks away.

  
  
It would be so easy, she knows, to tackle Petunia now. To bash her head against the wall before she has the chance to use magic against her.

  
  
It would be so easy, but the thought doesn't excite her nearly as much as it should.

  
  
That terrifies her.

  
  
"Don't tell me what to do bitch!" She snaps in an effort to steady herself, and Petunia flinches. Good, a part of her whispers. She tells herself no other part exits.

  
  
She storms to her room and throws herself onto the bed, screams into her pillow. She remembers the look in Petunia's eyes as she had turned to leave and hates, steadfast and blazingly strong.

  
  
Her nails dig against the tender skin of her wrists. She wants to claw something to ribbons, and the worst part is that she isn't sure whether the emotion is directed towards Petunia or herself. 

* * *

  
It's very hard to hate someone who fusses over you, who cooks for you, who calls you dear and sweetie and respects your boundaries, who's smile is bright as the sun.

  
  
But the thing is, Cakegirl tries. She throws tantrums and breaks pots and does everything in her power to feed that guttered flame, but her actions might as well be water for all the good she does. In the end she accomplishes nothing but making herself feel horrible when she catches Petunia picking up the pieces, face drawn and aged.

  
  
And with each passing day, she finds it harder and harder to find it in herself to leave.

  
  
In a fairytale she would be the young and beautiful Princess, naively believing in a beautiful fairy's words. She would be a princess, and the fairy would turn out to be a witch, and she would find herself saved and wedded to a handsome prince.

  
  
But she isn't a princess and Petunia isn't a witch. The house isn't a huge tower she can't escape. No princes are coming for her, and no one ever will come looking for her for any other reason but dragging her back, kicking and screaming. 

  
Life isn't a fairytale. This is the hardest realization she has ever had to go through. 

* * *

  
She has to leave, because this is changing everything.

  
Because Petunia is sweet and kind, and her house is not yet a home but close to it. She watches the flowers blooming under her bedroom window sway in the breeze and wants so much it hurts.

  
  
But she'd be giving up her revenge, and her vow to make Wallis pay. She stares at a spot on the wall and imagines crimson blood coating it, imagines her own hands painted red.

  
  
She ends up vomiting into the toilet later, and she sticks her hands into boiling hot water to rid herself of the phantom sensation of blood and death.

* * *

  
She's watching the small television available when her name flashes on screen, the news alerting all of Gloomverse to a runaway patient and an incompetent psychiatrist. Her teacup slips from shaking hands and shatters onto the floor, a million little shards of porcelain.

  
  
Petunia is behind her, but she can't find it in herself to turn and see the disgust and fear surely on her face. Her heart is a beating war drum as she stands up abruptly, a numb sort of feeling creeping up her spine.

  
  
"I-" She starts, but then arms wrap around her waist in a hug, and warmth chases the numbness away.

  
  
"Do you want to leave?" She hears through the haze in her head. Her throat is dry and her hands are clammy as she tries to breathe.

  
  
She has to. She has to leave if she wants to stay Cakegirl, if she wants to be alright. But-

  
  
But she thinks of loneliness and sorrow and anger and she feels herself deflating, collapsing like a house of cards.

  
  
"I don't- I don't want to." She chokes out between sobs, the palms of her hands digging into her eyes. Her heart feels like it's going to fall out of her chest. "I-I, please don't ma-make me go back."

  
  
She half prepares for Petunia to say no, to send her away like Blue did.

  
  
Instead she gets a soft uttered "Of course not." as the arms around her waist squeeze tighter.

  
  
She feels the last of her grief and hate fade away, cannot find it in herself to muster up anymore. So she twists in the hug and buries her head in Petunia's shoulder.

  
  
It smells like flowers and family, and she finds it in herself to love again.

  
  
(Life isn't a fairytale, that's true. But as she watches Petunia fuss over her, as she is given yet another cup of tea, she tells herself that maybe she can still have her happily ever after after all.) 

* * *

  
The next day Petunia finds her pots and cups sitting on the table, painstakingly glued together, and smiles.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might write some more in this universe


	10. But even that hardest of hearts unhardened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Persephone and Hades meet differently, but end the same.

She sits in the flowers, a smile on her face and blooms in her hair, and all Hades can think is _Oh she’s beautiful._

Because there’s a goddess there in the meadow, laughter spilling from her lips and pollen dusting her cheeks. He watches her silently, almost guiltily, drinking in the sight of her eyes, vibrant greens that matched the grass around him. Her hair is just as beautiful, bringing to mind fields of ripe brown wheat ready for picking.

She sits there and laughs and sings, the silks she’s wearing fluttering in the breeze, and Hades finds himself suddenly incapable of thinking at all.

( He watches until the pull gets stronger, more painful- until he is almost physically dragged back to the Underworld, blood red eyes wide in anger and resignation as he stumbles back.

And then he wonders, and thinks, in the depths of his realm. He sits on his throne and oversees the kingdom he had built himself from nothing, deep in thought.

He is the King of the Underworld, ruler of the earth where others held sway over sea and sky, and still he looks at all his precious jewels and thinks that they have nothing on her smile. )

* * *

  
There’s a man watching her on the outskirts of her precious field of flowers.

Persephone can barely see him- he’s hidden so well- but she can feel his presence, the rolling aura of death and decay. It lingers like a bad scent, a stain that can’t be wiped away. She knows she should feel disgusted or scared by the shadowy figure in the trees.

But the god (and it has to be a god, there can be no other) takes great care not to touch the trees and render them dead, skirts around the flowers. He curbs his trail of destruction as much as it can be controlled, with only footprints of wilted grass being the only sign he was ever there.

He looks lonely.

Persephone waves a hand over those patches of dried plants and finds herself wondering when the god will come back.

( She caught a glimpse of his eyes once. bright red rubies that blinked close when their gazes met. Persephone finds herself enamoured by those crimson orbs. They remind her of roses and poppies growing lovely and strong, red petals unfurling in the sun.

She is Goddess of Spring and Daughter of Demeter, bringer of flowers and life where her mother grew crops and brought fertility, and still she looks at the flowers underfoot and finds herself wishing to share the joy they bring her with that stranger, the God with such beautifully sad eyes.)

* * *

It feels like a century has passed before Hades musters up the courage to approach her.

He prepares himself for the encounter- fashions himself to look soft and harmless, so as not to scare her away. His hair is dark as Tartarus and edged boldly with blood, an intimidating combination, so he banishes the dark and dulls the red down just a bit. His eyes are too narrow, too cynical and bitter to ever be inviting. He considers color after color before going with blue, the color of the sky when absent of clouds.

He looks upon and himself and feels satisfied. With a flick of his wrist he changes his armor for a traditional toga in soft pinks and blues, yellow jewelry adorning his neck and tinkling merrily as he makes his way to the surface.

(Decades later he will look back on to this moment and blush, for ever thinking that Persephone would be so faint hearted as to fear the mere sight off him.

But that is after, when he has grown to know that beauty doesn’t necessarily mean fragile, that being gentle is not the same as being weak.)

* * *

“Hello.”

Persephone looks up to see a friendly looking face, if one that’s a bit shy. Green eyes meet unfamiliar blue, and she cocks her head like a curious bird. He certainly feels like the mysterious god who had been watching her, but his eyes are of another color.

Still, she is nothing but polite, and pats the patch of flowers next to her invitingly. The god hesitates before he does so, wincing when he ends up making the patch wilt. She feels a small smile break out on her face at the sight of a full grown man panicking over killing flowers, warmth blooming in her heart.

“Hello. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

The redhead turns to look at her, looking a bit lost. “Ah- yes. It really is.” He nervously, rubbing the back of his head. She is pleasantly surprised to find it endearing. “It must be nice, being able to see this everyday…”

She looks at this god, looking at everything around him with so much childish glee and longing it hurt, and finds herself reaching out. “I could show you around.”

The startled grin that she finds herself given reminds her of the sun, bright and warm as can be.

“I-I’d like that.”

( She keeps her word, brings him to her favourite places. For a god of death (and she is sure he must be one) he is surprisingly gentle. He shies away from curious animals, tries his best not to touch anything.

She brings him to see the rivers and forests and eventually, the stars, and the look on his face with every sight is something breathtaking to see.

He has to leave eventually of course- their duties call for them. But his voice is genuine in its sincerity when he asks, softly, if they could do this again sometime.

Persephone clasps his hands in hers and smiles as she agrees, eyes tracking his hair as it sways in the wind.)

* * *

They get closer, and closer, and closer still, until one night when there’s no one but the trees to listen to them, Persephone trusts him with her sacred name.

 _Petunia._ He mouths, the name nectar on his tongue. He smells flowers, hear the tolling of bells as he tries the word out. A divine name suited for such a divine being, for the woman he has grown to love and associate with life and new chances.

And in return, he speaks his name for the first time in an eternity, waits eagerly for her response.

* * *

  
_Amadeus._ She whispers, eyes widening. For names held power, and this one tasted like blood on her lips, cloying and thick.

But she looks at the God next to her, the expectant and almost reverent look on his face, and does not need to fake a smile.

Their hands join and their foreheads meet. The kiss they share is tender, as they fit together like sheets of finely crafted glass.  
  
(She offers, once in a visit to Amadeus’s realm, to eat a promegenate. He falls over himself to dissuade her, to prevent. _Your life is up there._ He pleads. Not here in the dark.

You’re wrong. She says patiently, as if to a child. _My life is here, with you._

He feels happy, but there is an undercurrent of fear running through him at the thought of binding her here. A flower would wilt without the sun. _Half the fruit then, half the year._ He almost begs. _And I will visit, in spring._

Petunia considers it before nodding, splitting the fruit in half. He watches as it passes her lips, painting her mouth vivid red. The color of his hair, the color of his true eyes.

 _Will you forget me when I’m gone?_ She teases, flippant and quick. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close.

He looks at all the flowers she has grown in the Underworld against all odds, at the fields of asphodel and the fruit bearing trees. Feels the warmth she has brought to his life, everlasting and bright.

 _Never._ He says, and she giggles as he gives her a kiss.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy and hard is the heart of the king  
> King of iron, king of steel  
> The heart of the king loves everything  
> Like the hammer loves the nail
> 
> But the heart of a man is a simple one  
> Small and soft, flesh and blood  
> And all that it loves is a woman  
> A woman is all that it loves
> 
> And Hades is king of the scythe and the sword  
> He covers the world in the color of rust  
> He scrapes the sky and scars the earth  
> And he comes down heavy and hard on us
> 
> But even that hardest of hearts unhardened  
> Suddenly, when he saw her there  
> Persephone in her mother’s garden  
> Sun on her shoulders, wind in her hair
> 
> The smell of the flowers she held in her hand  
> And the pollen that fell from her fingertips  
> And suddenly Hades was only a man  
> With a taste of nectar upon his lips, singing:  
> La la la la la la la…
> 
> -Anais Mitchell, Epic Part 2
> 
> (For Nualie, who is an incredible writer and a lovely person. Thanks for your support! Heard you like Hobo owol)


	11. Wear your heart on your sleeve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which your soulmates leave marks on you, whether you want them or not.

Wallis’s first touch dyes Harold's forehead red, dark like blood— the brother’s own lips come away a vivid, electric gold, a starburst in his smile.

 

Petunia leaves lavender strokes across his face, where a gentle hand had brushed his hair away absentmindedly; there is a mark on his back of the same color, fingers splayed like a bird taking flight.

* * *

 

Purple has a hickory bruise across his chest, one that will never truly go away— it has been there since a blond child tumbled down the stairs and collided into him, sending them both hitting the floor in a groaning heap. The left side of Wallis’s face drips with wine, deep and bold.

 

(He tells himself he doesn’t feel bitter when people gush over how handsome Wallis is, how the deep color just brings out his eyes.)

* * *

 

Petunia wipes Assistant’s tears away, gentle and soft. She leaves mossy crescents around the younger woman’s eyes, but she can’t bring herself to regret the necessity, not when the recipient looks at her with so much hope it hurts.

 

Her own thumbs come away hazel; they clash horribly with the rest of her fingers, a deep ebony from where Amadeus first held them in his.

* * *

 

Cirrus has midnight blue lightning running through his wrists and down to his fingers, from when a younger princess had grabbed hold of them and proved to him she was worthy of the title for the first time.

 

It is the darkest mark he has, even more so than Alto’s cloudy gray smudges (his left leg), Virga’s streaks of frost (his right shoulder), and the remains of Madam President’s blush (His knuckles). It’s the darkest and he’s alright with that, even if the silver dust he leaves on Nim’s palms is several shades lighter than his own.

 

But then a magic show happens, and disaster strikes, and-

 

-a black haired gloomversian stains his hand with crimson, vivid enough to make his heart leap to his throat.

 

(He leaves the man’s neck imprinted with sunshine, vibrant and bold.)

* * *

Seaweed’s marks are mostly deliberate- some red here, some pink there. She likes looking at them, the marks others leave behind.

 

There are exceptions, of course.

 

Her back is coral from where Petunia hugged her for the first time; her thigh is steely gray from when Harold and she bumped into each other. Her fist is painted jade thanks to Assistant, and both her and Purple sport pear green, his mark a handprint on his left cheek and hers the palm of her right hand.

 

(She cups Wallis’s right cheek with her other hand and comes away with magenta; her best friend’s face is a hybrid of wine-red and cobalt blue.)

* * *

 

Amadeus’s arms are stained with rust, painful reminders of a time long past that he covers up at all times. They remind him too much of the blood on his hands, and the feeling won't go away no matter how many layers he wears.

 

His fingers are an exception- plum, almost black. When the streets are colder than usual he touches his lips and pretends that he can still feel the warmth of her kiss. 

 

(There’s a smear of fiery orange from where he and Wallis’s foreheads had touched; a tiny raspberry red handprint coats his nose, from when Harold had held on and refused to let go.)

 

(When he meets Assistant, he elbows her playfully, but the mulberry prints left on the both of them shock him into silence.)

* * *

 

Indigo and Pi had touched the day the latter had handed the former a change of clothes in preparation for the Date. The careless brushing of fingers leaves pine currents and eggplant stripes respectively, to both their surprises.

 

There isn’t time for shock though, so nothing is said. Still, Indigo can’t forget the incident, and he finds himself thinking on it when his touch brands Ylil’s hands with mauve.

 

(He swallows nervously when he sees the sapphire mark she leaves behind, much too translucent, much too light.)

* * *

 

The punch makes Cakegirl vision explode with magenta— she leaves Assistant’s fist bursting with hot pink. 

 

(It’s the boldest color she has, apart from the navy blue handprint on her chin (gentle comfort and sisterly compassion) and the blood red hands on her cheeks. (cold dismissal and powerful strikes.)

* * *

 

Petunia tells her sons which marks were left by their father.

 

Wallis wouldn’t admit it, but he used to envy his brother, for the rose red on his forehead was many shades lighter than Harold’s own dark patch of chocolate.

* * *

 

Rylie’s parents left sickly bone-white prints on her wrists from the force of their slaps. She hates them. She would put her hands into boiling water to get rid of them, if she only knew it would work.

 

But the ugly marks are quickly overshadowed once she begins working with Wallis- sea foam on her knuckles, electric blue on her cheek from when she had fallen asleep on Harold’s shoulder. Her hand is a sunny orange from her employer, her other a respectable violet thanks to a professor.

 

She bears the crescents around her eyes with pride, smiles at the mulberry spot on her hip. They’re bright and vivid and  _ colorful _ the lot of them, and she can’t think of anything she’d like better.

* * *

 

Harold watches Hobo leave a parchment white print on Seaweed’s shoulder, and  _ wonders. _

 

(Because Hobo has had influence on him and yet his touches leave no mark; there is no sign of his existence on either him or his brother.)

 

Which means…

 

What, exactly?

 

The dark chocolate print on his hand burns, and the tingle persists no matter how hard he shakes it.

 

(He’s at the edge of an epiphany, but he’s not sure if he wants it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blatantly inspired by this fic here, probably one of the first I've ever read on this site - go check them out! They did this concept much more justice anyhow. https://archiveofourown.org/works/8039425/chapters/18412138#workskin
> 
> The color and intensity of color is determined by how influential the soulmate is to the person btw!


	12. Pushing Daisies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In wich you have to earn your happy ending.

He thinks he remembers the first time.

The memory is hazy around the edges, lined with the smell of copper and the taste of salt. He remembers the kitten, the car, and nothing in between.

He thinks he can remember fingers brushing against fur, the sudden jolt of life, if he focuses hard enough.

He can't remember how it was to watch it die again, no matter how harsh the nights or ragged his breathing, the crescent moons on his palms blood red in the darkness.

* * *

There's a coldness to him that he has known for a while, can't remember ever being without. He traces shapes on the window and swears later he saw frost spiraling under his fingertips.

He doesn't care though. He's cold and frigid but all the books say that the hottest stars are blue and the colder ones red, and red is a much prettier color to him. Red is the color of his door, the one with half peeled stickers yellowed with age, notes plastered on wood. Red is his favorite colored crayon, the roses under mom's window and the strawberries they buy sometimes.

Red is the color of his hat.

He offers his brother a chance to fly like a bird, or like the plushies he has done it to so far. Harold accepts- of course he does. He grins but the cold is still there, a tightening in his chest, a shadow in his smile.

He ignores it.

He wishes he hadn't.

(Red is the color of the blood on his hands.)

* * *

His brother had been dead.

Harold had been dead and he- he panicked. He had seen his little brother lying cold on the ground, painted in blackened red, and he had refused.

He had touched.

And his brother had gasped awake, eyes lucid and his heart had beat again- there had to be something right with that. Right? Didn't he do something right?

He hadn't been able to do anything but cry, the freezing numbness streaming down his cheeks like thawed waterfalls. He had buried his hands in his hat, two blocks of ice with fingers, sobbed like his life had depended on it.

Everything had felt sharp, a choking sensation lodged in his throat, a chorus of Oh my gods and thank yous in his head. It made it hard to breathe, the sheer magnitude.

But then Harold had whispered "Mom..?" and suddenly-

He couldn't breathe at all.

* * *

"Hi, my name is Tanner."

The kid (his new brother, but he can't accept that, doesn't even want to try) is a scrawny little thing. He's the same age but somehow smaller, more frail, eyes a warm brown that makes him ill to the stomach. They are the wrong color, the wrong shade.

He feels the back of his neck prickle, is seized with the sudden urge to run or scream. His body feels wrong, like a doll with two left feet or a marionette without strings.

(He still feels so very, very cold.)

"Hi." He manages, wipes his tears on his sleeve. (He hadn't noticed he had started crying.) "Nice to meet you."

It's not. It can't ever be nice again.

He thinks of his brother, the real one, miles away in an orphanage with no house or person to call home, and wonders if he can be forgiven for breaking down.

* * *

They're 12 years old and he's a train with no tracks, spinning out of control. He sits in his room when he's not at school, stares at the suffocating darkness and counts all the ways it could have turned out different.

He had tried blaming someone- his brother for dying in the first place, his mom for being nearby, his magic for being so unpredictable. He tries but there's only so many lies someone can feed themself. He knows, deep down, the only one to blame is himself.

"Poor boy," Tanner's mom (not his mom, never, his mom is sleeping under an oak tree in the cemetery) "To go through so much as this age. Be nice to him, okay?"

He wishes people wouldn't be so nice, wouldn't look at him with such pity. He's a bad bad person, old man Winter with an icicles for a heart.

* * *

Then Tanner dies.

It-

They-

It wasn't supposed to-

Just a few bullies. Barely five. He had been there, had fought them off himself, because brother or no brother Tanner was just a little bookworm who had never hurt anybody.

(Wallis was an exception.)

A rock. That was all it was. The size of a fist, maybe not even that. It had struck his head hard, and he had to watch as Tanner's skull caved like a pile of wet tissue.

There had been no red this time.

That did not make it any better.

He's shaking as he falls to his knees, hears the bullies freeze and curse. It's cold and frigid outside despite being summer, snow frosting his fingers and shards of ice dripping from his lashes.

He can't-

Not again.

A touch, feather light, and Tanner takes in a breath.

Behind him, one of the fleeing bullies takes in their last.

* * *

"I've got someone you need to meet."

Tann- No, it's Purple now, he had to remember that- looks at him through the rim of his glasses. "Her name is Seaweed. I think you'll like her."

He considers yelling. He wants to hate her, if only to prove his (not brother, never brother) wrong. He's been thinking about doing that a lot lately.

"Yeah sure." He says. Purple is smiling, but there's a mountain of doubt in his eyes. He pretends he can't see it. "I'll go see this Seaweed."

Purple looks away, hands wringing. He looks ready to reach out, to touch, but he stays his hand. They both know why.

"I just... want to see you okay Wallis."

He shakes his head, tries not to laugh. He bites at the stubs of his fingernails and looks Purple in the eyes.

"Maybe you shouldn't."

"..." His (not brother) friend opens his mouth to say something, but then shuts it helplessly. There are no words to say. What can be said about that?

He looks at Purple, a perfect responsible adult, a steady job and a goal in mind and all streamlined edges, a book with pages sharp enough to cut, and wonders if Tanner died after all.

* * *

“Wow.” Seaweed’s eyes are half lidded, her hair swaying slowly with the wind. "So you’re Purple’s brother.” She sounds unimpressed, pops the lollipop back into her mouth. He can almost see her dismiss him.

“Not his brother.” He says, and he knows what she’ll do. What everyone does. She’ll apologize and then tiptoe around him, as it he’s a marble statue poised to crack. Maybe he is. He doesn’t know anymore.

“His brother.” She states, matter of fact and oh-

That’s a surprise.

“You’re a bitch.” He finds himself saying, feeling cold all over. His bones feel like they’re crushing under the weight, the absence of warmth. The words spew from his mouth like an avalanche. “You’re such a-”

There’s a sharp pain in his cheek and he finds himself on the ground, heaving. His face hurts, and blood is trickling out of his nose. He’s sure that if he touched it, he’d feel the beginning of a bruise.

He doesn’t feel so cold anymore. It’d be hard to, when his heart is beating so loudly he can hear echoes of it in his ears.

“Hey, get up.” A pressure at his side. “Aw shit. You aren’t dead right?”

  
He pushes himself up, ignoring the throbbing. “ ‘m fine.” He slurs. She rolls her eyes and offers him her hand. He doesn’t hesitate to take it.

“I’m sorry.” He says later, pressing tissues onto his nose and skipping stones over the lake. She’s making shapes with the water, twisting them around her. He can’t stop looking. “For calling you that.”

“Eh, been called worse.” She waves his apology away. He waits for a few seconds. She doesn’t say sorry in return.

He thinks Purple might be onto something.

* * *

“So your brother-”

“Not my brother.” He corrects Seaweed, tired of having to do so. They’ve done this so many times it feels like a habit sometimes, a knee jerk reaction instead of the correction it really is. It’s terrifying. He wants to scream.

“Your brother,” She continues, as if she can’t hear him. For all he knows, he hadn’t said those words out loud. He looks away and tries not to choke on the ice flowing through his veins. “Is an ass.”

He laughs, startled. “When is he not?” He says, and his voice is brittle. He remembers a child with soft eyes and even softer edges, wonders where all the time had gone. “He’s usually nicer to you though hon.”

Seaweed is quiet.

He pretends his heart doesn’t skip a beat.

“Wallis…” She meets his eye. He wishes she won’t. “I’m leaving.”

“What?”

He can’t understand it. He doesn’t want to. It feels like he’s drowning, fists banging against ice desperately. This can’t be real. It can’t.

“I got a gig in Prisma.” That’s so far away, he wants to tell her. Wouldn’t you be lonely? But he swallows his words, because he knows they’re really meant for him.

His scalp itches. He buries his fingers in his hair, tugs hard and fierce. Seaweed is leaving. Seaweed, his best friend, leaving. Seaweed, who’s still living.

What if she dies? He wouldn’t be there. He’s been surrounded by the dead for so long that he’s forgotten how vulnerable the living really were. He’s suddenly keenly aware that anything could kill her, from a fall to a cut to a burn. A thousand different ways her lungs will stop drawing breath, her heart cease beating.

He thinks he might be hyperventilating. He can’t seem to do anything right.

Seaweed clasps his hands between her own, green eyes glittering. She looks grim and determined. “Wallis,” She says, sure. “You should come with me.”

* * *

“If you get famous, you can find your brother.”

He stares at the mirror, plays Seaweed’s words over and over. His knuckles are bone white and bloody- red again. He can’t remember why he would ever have liked that color.

He thinks of Harold.

Memories are a fickle thing. It’s been so long, and the pictures he conjures are hazy at bet. He can’t remember what their house were like, the color of mom’s eyes, or even her name. She’d always been mom to her, never had the chance to be different.

He’s always been terrified of losing his image of Harold. Had brought it up night after night, a secret that he alone has, the desperation a poison that burns him inside out. It was all worth it though. He hasn’t forgotten the bright blue eyes that mirrored his own, the shy smile half hidden behind a stuffed toy.

The picture is perfect. Not hazy at all.

How long would that last?

He feels cold, so so cold.

He wonders if finding his brother will change that.

* * *

“I’ll come.”

He blows dust off his hat and wand, fights back the shudder that tears through him. They’re both red, red like blood, red like sin.

He feels frozen, an iceberg adrift in the ocean. His hands had healed but he can still feel the dampness on his fingers, smell the copper tang.

So cold. So cold. His back crawls with the creeping sensation of sin.

* * *

They do gigs together at first.

He’s new to his magic and he’s repulsed by it, despises it, but he weathers his internal storm and make things count. He charms his way into people’s hearts, a laugh at all the right places, a grin meant to encourage and a wink meant to tease.

He’s good at this.

Eventually he sees his face in a newspaper and realises he’s not a nobody anymore. Neither of them are.

That’s when they both know it’s time to go their separate ways- they were never meant to be a permanent group.

Seaweed kisses his cheek their last show together, and when she withdraws her eyes are tight with an unidentified emotion. “Go get them Wallis.” She grins.

He hears the roar of the crowd demanding an encore, the yelling resonating in his bones, and oh-

Is this what it was like to not feel cold?

* * *

He thinks he’s getting warmer.

It feels like the sun has finally shone through the clouds, melting the frost that had been suffocating him so long. Water drips down his skin, thin rivulets that soon become streams.

He changes the color of his hat, his entire color scheme. 90% likes the transition from red to blue. 10% does not, but they continue to attend his shows so perhaps it didn’t matter much to them.

It mattered to him. Blue stars shone the hottest.

He can finally breathe.

* * *

When the news come, he wastes no time heading out. His palms are slick with sweat; his heart a wardrum.

“Wallis.” Purple (his brother. He could admit it now, all these years later.) had told him through the phone. His voice had been shaking. “They found him.”

Him.

Harold.

Two words that mean so much.

He’s running through the streets and all he wants is to get there. He doesn’t care about the gasps or the phones going off- all he wants is his brother. That’s all he’s ever wanted popularity for. He doesn’t care what kind of story the tabloids spin regarding his desperate expression or his disheveled appearance. Not when he is so close.

He bursts into the alley he’d been told about, looks around. There doesn’t seem to be anything there at first glance. But he is a man on a mission, at the edge of his rope, and he sees the box in the corner for what it is.

His heart is beating loudly. He thinks he feels faint as he makes his approach, grabs the flaps of the box. He is terrified. Scared.

He lifts it.

The person underneath is so familiar he can only stare. The hair is black and the eyes are red but he can recognize that face anywhere, seen it in his dreams and nightmares whenever he sees fit to sleep.

He knows them.

And they do him. Ruby red eyes blink at him owlishly. “W- Wallis?”

“Harold.” He grins, and the ice in his chest finally, finally melts. He feels warm.

Harold sits up, and-

His fingers graze his brother’s head.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...But you won't always get it.
> 
> (Pushing Daisies AU- Wallis can revive a dead person by touching them. In exchange, a life of equal value is taken from nearby.
> 
> However, if he touches the revived person again, they'll die, and permanently this time.)
> 
> The name tanner for kid!Purple is courtesy of the amazing FuzzyKeldeo!


	13. I thought I cried tears but really it was blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...

1\. Agaphantus

* * *

Harold used to call him big brother.

It hurts to remember, a knife sinking between his ribs-- it’s like his chest is too small, and he can’t breathe for the want of it. All the things he could have said and done, to make it all turn out different, running through his mind like it didn’t have anything else to focus on.

Harold used to call him big brother. He won’t ever have the chance to anymore.

Wallis slips sometimes, in little ways: An extra plate, a plushie bought, a flash of black in the corner of his eyes. He’s walking and walking and always off balance, a step too slow, as if he has someone to wait for anymore-- as if he ever waited for Harold in the past.

How pathetic.

Every visit, Lilies coat his hand in pollen, sticky yellow that makes him want to retch-- he burns his gloves after, has to replace each, he can’t stand the whispering disgust that tickles his neck at it, at everything--because it's too late now, too late to regret, to miss, to want.

Dead People can’t appreciate Flowers.

Wallis brings the lilies there every day nonetheless.

* * *

 2. Solidago

* * *

 

“Wallis is on the roof again.”

Assistant is tired. She smiles like it’s the only thing she knows how to do, her eyes sunken. Her stomach boils with unidentified emotion at all times-- her mouth tastes like death, a lump in her throat sour like bile.

Hobo smiles back, but she thinks he does a better job of it really. He doesn’t look like a person two inches away from a drop. “I’ll go.” He says, and he pauses. To make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. is the unspoken thought.

“Yeah.” She drinks her tea. Her eyes burn. “Thanks.”

The thing is that she had been there. She had been there and she could have done something, anything-- but she hadn’t. She hadn’t and now it was too late to do anything but be strong, for the ones who were actually blameless in the whole affair.

Her fingers continue to drum against the table, harsh, beating, brushing against the bouquet she had bought, golden flowers aplenty. Support, the clerk had said to her. A thoughtful gesture, a consoling one.

Her nail splits open-- she doesn’t notice as the yellow petals turn blood orange, a dripping sunset on wood.

* * *

 3. Asphodelus

* * *

 “Please don’t leave me too.” He tells her. He holds her hands in his and sobs, chest quaking. He doesn’t want to be alone again.

He can’t remember what his old friends looked like. Can’t remember his own name sometimes. Drifted aimlessly for centuries, memories fading, body not matching his experiences.

Mind deteriorating. A human could only hold so much memories. One day he knows, he’ll forget it all-- everything, as his magic rebuilds him, bone and flesh and blood, until he’d be an infant again in a world not his own.

If a ship has every wooden plank replaced, would it even be the same ship? No, no it wouldn’t.

His son is dead. Amadeus knows he won’t ever see him again-- he regrets, so bitterly and sharp. He wants him back. Not enough time, nowhere near close enough. He has an eternity to look forward to and the memories are more bitter than sweet.

“Please don’t leave me.” He tells her. She smiles. Asphodels bloom under her feet.

“Not until you die.”

That’s answer enough.

* * *

4\. Lisianthus

* * *

 Pain blossoms in Seaweed’s chest.

It’s not fun anymore, to stay over at Wallis’s-- she waits until she’s home to cry. She was never close to Harold, but above all she remembers the surly teen who had the sweetest smile, who loved Wallis more than anything-- the teen who never really went away.

It hurts. It hurts so much. Everything’s a reminder, and she hurts. Her ribs ache and scrape against each other like broken glass, her voice raw with tears she cannot shed.

Close or not, it’s still a death.

She let the pain in and now it won’t go away-- Prairie Gentians bloom in the cracks running through her heart, wilted and dry.

She wishes she could have thanked Harold for being there for her best friend.

She wishes she could have done something worth thanking herself for, when it came to him.

She exhales. The smoke swirls in the air like snow-- she tastes ashes on her tongue.

* * *

 5. Dahlia

* * *

 Gloomverse funerals are so messy. He thinks of his beloved’s corpse rotting away beneath the soil, slowly devoured by worms and maggots and feels disgust, vivid and strong. Harold deserves to be up there in the clouds, apart of their sky and part of their home always.

There is no body though. Two funerals are enabled.

Cirrus attends both. He watches as an empty casket is lowered underground, and as an equally empty burial shroud merges with the clouds. He acts befitting a prince, without crying, without sorrow. He sprinkles Dahlias on the ground and on the clouds-- scattered petals on the wind.

Nim accuses him of being heartless. He is not. He turns away from her and leaves. She does not see the sparks leaping from his fingertips. He is thankful for that.

He works. He’s a prince. He has no need to mourn.

He knows that if he does, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's your fault.


	14. If I could wish for one thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all Petunia's ever wanted is for her family to be whole.

_“What handsome boys!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Petunia smiles, a sunrise stretched taut between her cheeks as she watches her sons play. Harold and Wallis are a blur of blue and blond in the horizon, playfighting and tussling with each other._ _  
_ _  
_ _She doesn’t worry- her shooting star is ever so careful with his little brother, holds him close like he’s a porcelain figure to be cherished. She hasn’t so much as seen her youngest bruise, in all of their wrestling matches that end up with broken vases and scuffled carpets._ _  
_ _  
_ _“You must be very proud of them.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _I am, she thinks, heart lifting. She watches her children break apart to laugh, two peas in a pod. Her chest feels like it’s aflutter with a thousand little wings, her throat sticky with an emotion she can’t identify._ _  
_ —-  
“How is Gloomy Bear doing?”  
  
It’s a fine morning. Wallis had come by for a visit, bearing flowers and (clearly) store bought chocolates. She sets them aside on her living room table as her son takes a seat next to her.  
  
Her son, who clears his throat, eyes darting from side to side like he’s seeking an escape.  
  
“Good. He’s doing good.” The answer comes too fast, too rushed, too false. She stays quiet, and Wallis stares at a spot in the wall with undetermined intensity. “Not that we talk a lot anymore.”  
  
“Wallis-.” She starts, then she stops. She wonders why her heart aches, a persistent throbbing in her chest. “Wallis.” She tries again, but her voice cracks at the final syllable and comes out weak and unsteady, a helpless chick only just growing in their feathers.  
  
Her fingers curl around her son’s. He’s silent as he leans against her, sagging: like the air has rushed out of him, and with it all the lies and the falsehoods and the masks. She reaches up one hand to cup his cheek. It’s warm and smooth, textured against her fingers.  
  
“You love your brother, don’t you? You’ll take care of him?” And she hates this, hates asking this of him. His eyes are tired, so tired, but she knows that they can grow wearier still.  
  
“...Of course.” It’s a wet murmur, laced with determination and sorrow and apologies left unheard- he squeezes her hand and swallows. “Of course Mom, of course, I won’t- I wouldn’t- I’d never leave him to just-“  
  
“I know.” She tells him, and she does. Her hand goes to his back and she rubs circles into it, traces spheres into purple cloth. “I know shooting star, I know.”  
  
“I love him.” Wallis sobs, like it means something, and it does. It really does. Mean everything, mean so so much.  
  
But they aren’t the ones who should be hearing them.  
—-  
_“Mommy!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Harold’s face is soft, and if Wallis is a star then her youngest is the moon: pale and light, gentle and forgiving- she can see it shine in him, a glow that can’t be put out._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Yes Gloomy Bear?” Her son opens his hand and paper stars trail between his fingers, pink and red and blue and so many other colors, powdered snow drifting towards the floor._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Look what I made in class!” He bounces on the balls of his feet, and the action sends more stars flying. “They’re nice, right?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _There’s an uncertain note she quickly puts to rest: She tells him they’re beautiful. She asks them what they’re for._ _  
_ _  
_ _“I’m gonna make lots and then Im gonna drop them to a jar and then Im gonna give the jar to big brother!”_ _  
_ —-  
When Harold visits, he rarely stays long.  
  
He’s grown quiet, reclusive- his eyes are sad now, brimming with grief, with the ache to mourn but no idea what to mourn for. He slouches, and he bites his tongue, and he doesn’t speak.  
  
When he thinks she isn’t looking, he’ll stare out of the window and there’s- something, there, and Petunia feels like she can’t breathe.  
  
“How is Wallis?” She asks, cheerfully, happily. She can afford no other tone, no other path.  
  
Across her, Harold’s fingers dig into his teacup. He says nothing.  
  
“Harold.”  
  
“...Fine. He’s fine.”  
  
It’s bitter, and forced, and it doesn’t ease her concerns but: It’s progress, small as it is. She ignores the chill settling between her shoulders and tries again.  
  
“Have you two talked recently?”  
  
A smile darts across Harold’s face as he shakes his head. It’s weighed down at the edges by longing and wishes long dead.  
—-  
_“ ‘m scared.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Her brave son, her brave little soldier, is curled up around his little brother as the walls shake with thunder. She watches from the doorway, hushed; her tongue lead in her mouth._ _  
_ _  
_ _Harold tugs at Wallis’s arm. He’s half asleep, but he pulls hard enough to make his elder brother dip with the motion. They end up hugging each other, Mr Monocle nestled in between._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Sleep.” Her youngest states. It’s not an order, not quite a fact, but something rings true. He shoves his face into his brother’s chest, small fingers clutching Mr Monocle._ _  
_ _  
_ _Another clap of thunder, another flash of lightning. Wallis whimpers. Harold wraps his arms around his brother and squeezes. Her eldest buries his face into his Harold’s hair._ _  
_ _  
_ _“...Love you Harry.” He murmurs, hiccuping with tears. His eyes begin to close._ _  
_ —-  
She worries. Such is the nature of a mother. She frets over where they are, where they could be, where they should be. Over whether they’re eating, over how they’re doing.  
  
It never crosses any of their minds to worry about her. Until she’s sitting at a doctor’s table with a blank head and even blanker eyes.  
  
Somewhere, her sons are going about their lives.  
  
Here, she hears how hers will end.  
—-  
_Wallis is running towards his brother at speeds that are alarming to a watching Petunia for numerous reasons, blonde hair whipped about by the breeze. “Harry..! Harry!” He squeals, barefoot in the mud as he crashes into the smaller boy, but somehow manages to catch his brother before he can get a faceful of mud._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Wa-llis!!” Harold groans. He looks at Mr Monocle with doefully sad eyes, prodding for a single stain or tear. When there is none, he returns his gaze to his brother. “Whatis it?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Wallis pokes his younger brother’s cheek with one finger, eyes wide and impish. “Nothing!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Just miss you, is all!”_ _  
_ —-  
She tells them over dinner, over clinking cutlery and empty dishes, over the silence between them that’s grown too long and hard.  
  
There’s a shattering noise as a plate slips from Harold’s limp fingers, shattering on the floor into a million little shards- behind her, she hears Wallis give a strangled noise, like someone had reached in and tore out his heart, pieces joining the broken glass on the floor.  
  
She says nothing. Does nothing. Petunia feels cold, numb, rooted to the spot and wilting like a plant gone far too long without sun.  
  
She doesn’t move, even as arms wrap around herself, even as she feels her shoulders dampen with the force of her eldest’s tears.  
  
A second passes, then two, but eventually, another set of arms encircle her, a darker mop of hair to stand out in their group of blonde.  
  
One, two, three.  
  
It feels like she can finally breathe.  
—-  
_“Wallis...”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“No! No, no, NO!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Her eldest son stomps his foot petulantly, looking for all the world like he could bring mountains down with that alone. Her sons are good children, but even they have their moments- and this is Wallis’s._ _  
_ _  
_ _He’s holding Harold to his chest, squeezing the toddler close; her youngest smiles and babbles wetly, small hands reached up to grasp at his older brother’s shirt. Blue eyes shift to him, cloudy skies dripping with rain._ _  
_ _  
_ _“I don’t WANT him to grow up!!! I wan’ him to stay small forever!” Wallis demands again, turning his back as if to hold Harold hostage. “Look at him! He’s so small, a-and cute, and weak, he can just stay like this!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“But he’s got to grow up Shooting Star.” She soothes- she watches his frame quiver with misplaced anger. “He has to, if he wants to take care of himself.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“He don’t gotta! Cuz I’ll always take care of him!”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Wallis grins at her, and it’s like the stars have come out, like she’s staring at the sun for the very first time._ _  
_ _  
_ _Despite herself, Petunia can’t find it in herself to disagree._ _  
_ —-  
They visit, once she’s admitted to the hospital.  
  
Wallis knows that the blank walls and the sharp smells of loss aren’t to her liking, so he brings color and pollen back into her life, so many blooms and bouquets until her room is filled with it, a veritable rainbow of every degree.  
  
(A passing nurse comments how lucky she is, to have such a kind and dedicated husband. She smiles at them and tries not to mourn.)  
  
(The next day, there’s a bouquet of Poppies left unsigned by her bed.)  
  
Compared to his brother, Harold draws many an eye for all the wrong reasons; he’s quiet and sullen, a sharp contrast to Wallis’s easy bedside manner and bright grins. He rarely speaks, now more than ever.  
  
But she knows that he cares for her, and this is how she does: at night, when the stars have come out and everyone else is asleep, her youngest will come and then he grieves.  
  
(He sits by her bedside and squeezes her hand tight, night after night, until she knows every callous and nick in his fingers and can trace every line on his palms.)  
—-  
_“Wi-Will he be okay?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Harold is taking it hard. He quakes with sobs too big for his small frame, too heavy for his body, heaving like the world has tilted on its axis and left him afloat. He’s been like this since gravity plucked Wallis from the branches of their tree and slammed him onto the hard earth below._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Of course Gloomy Bear.” She consoles him, threads her fingers through his hair and speaks the words into his raven locks. He clutches Mr Monocle like his life depends on it, and his weeping slows for a few moments before beginning anew._ _  
_ _  
_ _“He can’t- He has to be okay! He can’t not!” Harold insists, through the tears and the snot and the sadness, and the quiver in his voice nearly breaks Petunia as well. “He has to be! He’s Wallis!”_ _  
_ —-  
“Petu.”  
  
There’s only one person in the world who calls her that.  
  
She shifts with effort, attempting to turn her head, but then there are warm hands clasping her chin, halting her movement. She sees a familiar looking face swim into focus and can’t help but smile. “Dee-Dee.”  
  
He looks exactly the same as the day she met him- his hair hasn’t grown an inch, his skin hasn’t adopted any new wrinkles. The only difference now is the way he smiles, weakly, as if the smallest inconvenience can shatter it into a thousand pieces. His eyes glimmer blue under the moonlight, and he stares at her for a while.  
  
“...I missed you.” He whispers, and just like that, it feels like they’ve never been apart. She can’t help but smile back, softening.  
  
“I missed you too.” He nods, settling next to her. The bed is far too small for the both of them, and he has to sit very still to prevent the both of them from tipping over.  
  
(He’s so gentle right now, the fingers slotting into hers light and feathery, as if she’s made of glass, as if he’s afraid he will break her)  
  
“How did you get here?” She asks, and he laughs a bit; it’s just a smidge too low and a bit too heavy, but it’s a laugh. “It’s late.”  
  
“...I climbed in through the window.” He admits, and she has the pleasure of watching his ears turn red.  
  
“Dee-Dee!” She admonishes, but she’s giggling. It’s been so long, and she’s missed him. Her eyes sting. He shrugs in response, occupied with playing with her fingers.  
  
They stay like that, for a few beats, until she speaks again. “Did you see Harold and Wallis?”  
  
He stiffens then, seizing up. It’s a habit Harold has as well, the way they draw into themselves and go as tense as a bowstring, pulled taut and just at the edge of release. “I... I saw them visit you.” He tries lamely.  
  
She shakes her head, and he deflates.  
  
“I can’t Petu, it’s not safe- I want to meet them, I swear, you’ve raised them to be so good. And I want to be there for you all, but-“  
  
He trails off when she leans forward and taps his forehead softly with her own, until they’re face to face, blue eyes meeting blue.  
  
“Tell them.” She says, and he bites his lip. She sighs. “Amadeus, promise me this. Please. Tell them. I don’t like all these secrets.”  
  
He looks at her then, and she sees something in him shatter, something in her break, but she stays firm.  
  
“Okay.” He says, and it comes out a choked sob of acknowledgment. He grips her hand tighter. “Okay. I promise Petu.”  
  
She smiles at him, and then:  
  
“Do you want me to tell you about them?”  
  
The next hours are spent with nothing but talk- a conversation decades in the making, memories that only now have found their missing piece.  
  
(When she wakes the next morning there is no one there; but her bed is warm, and the window is open.)  
—-  
_Wallis stands in front of Harold, waving his new wand around- her youngest is quite taken by his brother’s magic, the way it raises things up and sends them spinning in midair._ _  
_ _  
_ _It’s adorable, she admits it, feels no shame in thinking so. She watches Harold giggle at the way Mr Monocle is floating, and the way Wallis’s grin widens, buoyed by his brother’s excitement._ _  
_ _  
_ _It’s cute. She can’t be blamed for her desire to take a picture of it- she heads into her bedroom, looking for a camera. It would only take a few minutes._ _  
_ _  
_ _(She will come to regret this decision for the rest of her life.)_  
—-  
.  
  
.  
  
...  
  
.........  
  
“...Mom?”  
—-  
_“Hey, Harold.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _The air between them is awkward, the circumstances more so. Wallis stands facing his brother for the first time in years, and something in his chest wrenches at the look Harold gives him._ _  
_ _  
_ _“What?” The word comes out harsh, nails dragging across a chalkboard. He smiles despite it, fixes  a grin on his face until it’s everything he knows._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Look, we don’t get along-“ And the words squeeze past his lips, drags themselves out: He tastes iron in his mouth, feels the weight of many many years pull him down. “But Mom always wanted us to. So just for now...”_ _  
_ _  
_ _(Please, let us do this for her, let us let her think we’ve changed. Let her believe we’re different. Let her believe I’m a better man than I am.)_ _  
_ _  
_ _Harold’s gaze is unreadable, carved rubies in his eyes, but eventually, he nods. There’s the barest of curves to his own lips, as he moves to stand beside Wallis._ _  
_ _  
_ _He doesn’t say anything. Neither of them says anything at all._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Just for now.” Harold murmurs, as Wallis pushes open the door to Petunia’s ward._ _  
_  
_“Just for now.” He echoes, and what he doesn’t know is that those words hurt Harold too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not stand at my grave and weep  
> I am not there. I do not sleep.  
> I am a thousand winds that blow.  
> I am the diamond glints on snow.  
> I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
> I am the gentle autumn rain.  
> When you awaken in the morning's hush  
> I am the swift uplifting rush  
> Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
> I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
> Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
> I am not there. I did not die.


End file.
